The Children of Abraham
by Rose Eclipse
Summary: When the last member of the Judah Initiative gets taken down and the Golem vanishes, the Winchesters pick up the trail.
1. Chapter 1

This first _Supernatural_ fan fiction was inspired after the season 8 episode 13 titled, "Everybody Hates Hitler." If I have made any spelling errors or typos then please PM me privately and I'll fix them as soon as possible. There are so many details about handling monsters in the Supernatural world but I tried to do my best while taking some creative liberties with Jewish tradition and culture. Please go easy on me.

Supernatural is created by Eric Kripke

A-A-A

"_For He remembered His sacred promise to Abraham, His servant." _–Psalm 105

A-A-A

_Belarus, 1944_

Rachel Grunberg was in hell.

Not a heat-infested pit but a frigid hell that chilled her bones, twisted inside her empty stomach, and chewed into her lice-infested head. She and the other Jews were being overworked into slow painful deaths under the boots of the Nazis. There would be nobody to mourn them when they finally collapsed to the ground. Their family and friends were long gone.

What purpose was there left to live for? If they didn't die of starvation or typhoid then the guards would yank prisoners of the barracks and drag them into the laboratory on the edge of the camp's compound. Those poor souls were never seen again.

Sometime Rachel's few hours of sleep were shattered by the sound of piercing screams. She'd see flickering lights and hear hissing noises coming from the laboratory. Some of the prisoners whispered fearfully that the Nazis were using prisoners for their scientific experiments. Others said it was something worse.

Rachel's legs felt like rubber from hours of heaving logs in the forest. If she slacked off then the guard wouldn't hesitate to use his whip. When his attention was distracted she stole a glance up at the sky where the air above their heads was safe, clear, and gleaming with stars. She wanted to close her eyes and fly up there into the arms of her parents. But she couldn't allow herself the luxury of giving up. Not after her big sister Malka had risked so much to keep both of them alive.

Malka, who didn't cry even when the commandant thrashed her like a dog in front of all the women.

Malka, who shared her bit of blanket when Rachel was shaking with fever.

Malka, who scourged the garbage cans for bits of food even if it meant being shot upon sight.

Rachel was pulled out of her stupor by Malka who had turned up in her group of work and thrust half a moldy potato into her hands.

"Take it!" she whispered frantically. Rachel needed no further instructions. She quickly shoved the potato into her mouth and swallowed without chewing. Malka nodded. "That's good. Keep it up, little sister. Save your strength."

How Malka managed to grin at a time like this was miraculous. Maybe it had something to do with the little "errands" she carried out by sneaking into that makeshift basement in the men's compound. Just what on earth where they creating down there? A bomb? An escape tunnel?

Malka wouldn't say. She just assured Rachel that something was going to turn those Nazis on their heads very soon.

She leaned closer to Rachel and whispered, "Not much longer now. As soon as the signal is given, we're going to climb over the fence and make for the woods. You'll be out of this horrible place forever."

"But what about you?" Rachel's eyes widened in agony. "I can't do anything without you, Malka."

Malka's hand dropped from stacking wood to seizing her little sister's withered hand. "Don't you worry. I'll take care of everything."

"Move it, scum!" snarled the soldier. The sisters grasped a fallen log, splinters digging into their chaffed hands.

"Promise?" Rachel asked meekly.

"I promise," Malka soothed her. "Have I ever let my little sister down?"

A-A-A

_Present day Pennsylvania:_

"Refill?"

Dean Winchester looked up at the perky blonde who was poised over him with a coffee pitcher in hand and a winsome smile on her face.

"Sure," he responded with grin.

She bent over to fill up his cup and was rewarded with a wink and a "thank you" from the handsome young man. The waitress's long legs walked off with a spring in her step.

Life was good. Well, relatively good when you considered all the adversity that had dropped itself upon Dean's head ever since he started this road trip down Nightmare Street with his younger brother Sam years ago for the "family business". They had just taken apart a nest of vampires in Georgia, vanquished two furious spirits in West Virginia, and had made their way towards Pittsburgh to recharge their batteries.

Dean pushed around the remains of his breakfast with a fork. He still took diner meals in stride but knowing that they now had a fully-operational kitchen in the Bunker was a blessing he didn't intend to take for granted. An inheritance from their grandfather, who had been a member of the secret society known as the Men of Letters, the Bunker was the current residence of the Winchester boys and a welcomed sanctuary to Dean after years of cheap motels and camping out in abandoned houses.

Okay, so the Bunker's kitchen was right out of a 1930's catalog (maybe that's because it had been sealed up for decades) but at least it had working appliances. He made a mental note to pick up milk and a blender. Dean intended to surprise his younger brother with one of the best milkshakes Sammy had ever tasted.

But now his attention was focused on the pimply teenager sitting across from him in the booth. Dean took a sip of coffee, being careful not to spill it on his suit. "Would you mind telling me again what you saw?" he asked.

Brian's head bobbed up and down. "It's like I said, Office Kane. Some huge guy jumped out of the shadows and knocked me and my pals down. I swear I'm not crazy!"

"I don't doubt it," Dean assured him. He placed his cup down. "Why don't you back up and tell me exactly where you and your buddies were at 11 o'clock the other night?"

"It has been a busy day and we were all heading home from uh, the library," Brian began. "I had to pick up some stuff for my Mom at the A&P and then as we were rounding Baltic Avenue, this huge guy popped out of nowhere! He was like, ten feet tall or something! Pounded us like hamburger meat!"

"No weapons?" Dean asked.

"He didn't need them, man! He just picked up Jeffrey and threw him against the wall like a rag. We tried to take him down but he just grunted like an ape and punched our lights out." Brian pointed to his left eye that was purple and swollen. "Just look at the shiner he gave me! Boy, it's a good thing we got away."

"It sure is," Dean commented. "Too bad you lost your stuff too."

Brian's eyes widened. "H-how did you know that?"

Dean reached under the table and pulled out a heavy green knapsack. "We found this at the scene of the crime."

"Gee, thanks." Brian reached for the bag but Dean kept his hands on it.

"There's just one thing that I don't understand, Brian Dempsy. You and your buddies have a reputation around here for breaking curfew. And suddenly you decide to be Mr. Nice Guy by getting Mommy some groceries _and_ being at the library two hours after it closes?" Dean wagged a finger. "Something doesn't gel here, kid. Nobody becomes a saint overnight."

He unzipped the backpack and took out two cans of spray paint. Brian gulped.

"Now let me tell you what I heard after talking to some good upstanding citizens. They say a couple of guys that looked like you and your pals _were_ at Baltic Avenue the other night but what you were painting wasn't the Sistine Chapel."

Dean placed both hands on the table and looked Brian Dempsy squarely in the eye. His voice was cold as steel. "Now I can either clamp on the bracelets and take you downtown or you can get your head out of your sorry punk-ass and find a new hobby."

"B-but what about…" Brian spluttered.

"I'll look into Andre the Giant. You make sure you're in bed by ten o'clock every night or else I'll give you something to make you piss in your pants."

Dean's tone had the right effect and Brian's head nodded up and down obediently.

"Good. Glad we had that little chat."

The Winchester got up, tossed some bills on the table, and headed outside. Sam was sitting inside the Impala and so engrossed in his magazine that he didn't notice his older brother approach the car. Dean reached a hand through the open driver's seat and slammed a hand on the horn.

_HONK!_

Sam yelped and nearly jumped out of his skin. Dean chuckled.

"I swear, Sammy. You are too easy sometimes." Dean got into the car and snatched the magazine out of his brother's hands. "Especially when it comes to the latest issue of _Busty Asian Beauties_."

Glee quickly turned to surprise and then frustration as Dean flipped through the pages. "A medical journal? Seriously?"

Sam grabbed the magazine back. "We're not the only current events around. This issue has an exclusive interview with Dr. Miri Jacobson, one of the leading surgeons in the country," he said as-a-matter-of-fact.

"Whoopie do wah."

Dean eyed the woman on the cover with skeptism. Tall, slim, and in her mid-50's, Dr. Jacobson sported angular features and bobbed blonde hair. Every inch of her suit was ironed and starched to perfection. Her smile was firm and condescending to Dean. She looked as if she was telling him to drink his milk, tie his shoes, and brush his teeth.

"I need to find you some hotter chicks."

Sam ignored his brother. "Dr. Jacobson is a genius. Just last month she saved a guy's life in Omaha even after the other doctors said he'd never recover from the car crash. The operations she's assisted in helping people, the lives she's saved…"

"Yay for her."

Sam's brow furrowed. "Has it occurred to you that there are other people in the world besides us who actually do good things? Things that don't involve killing demons and burning monsters to the ground?"

"Yeah. But they're not as hot as we are." Dean turned the key in the ignition and drove off.

"So what happened back there? New mojo working up in town?" asked Sam.

"Nah, I think its old mojo. Remember last year when we came through the Wilkes-Barre campus and met Aaron Bass and his walking talking Frankenstein?"

Sam Winchester couldn't forget. "Case Zero" began right after the Winchesters had discovered the Men of Letters hideout and ended with Sam dutifully logging the instance for future references.

The case had been a colorful one, even for hunters as experienced as Sam and Dean. It had involved a rabbi spontaneously combusting, a giant mud-man brought to life, Nazi necromancers, and a frustrated young Jewish man who finally took a stand after watching the Winchesters hack and burn several zombies.

"A couple of punks in town say they saw something that sounded a lot like the Golem hunkering around town late at night."

Sam glanced up. "Do you think Aaron knows something about it?"

"I figure it can't hurt to ask," Dean shrugged. "We'll swing by the neighborhood and see if he knows anything about it. Then pick up something healthy for you to read for a change."

Sam decided not to debate his brother on this one and went back to his medical journal.

A-A-A

Aaron Bass had moved to the other side of town since the last time the Winchesters came through. They hadn't been driving more than six minutes towards his current address when Sam pointed out the window. A familiar young man was heading out the front door of a café while carefully balancing a cardboard tray stacked with hot coffee cups. He nearly dropped everything when the Impala honked twice to get his attention.

Dean pulled the car to a stop and got out. "Well, look at you!" he exclaimed, sizing Aaron up and down. The cardboard tray balanced to Aaron's left hand while he used the other one to shake Dean's hand firmly.

"Good to see you too," Aaron said.

The young man seemed to stand a little taller than the last time they had met but the most noticeable difference was the crocheted blue-and-white skullcap on Aaron's head. He wore a sports jacket and had some kind of white fringes dangled out of the sides of his pants. Noticing Dean's eyes were focused on his headgear, Aaron nodded and adjusted his _yarmulke. _

"I know. I don't believe it either," he smiled sheepishly. "One day I'm moping around the local bar and the next thing I know it, my e-mail box is flooded with questions from blessings to bar mitzvahs. Crazy, right?"

"Not at all. Sounds like you've found your true calling."

Aaron waved to Sam who was still in the car before addressing Dean again. "What are you guys doing back in town?"

"Routine checkup. Some punks said something about a midnight monster and I thought I'd make sure it was your Godzilla and not something else."

"Oh, that." Aaron lowered his voice. "I probably shouldn't have sent him after those clowns. But they were making a mess and scaring people."

Dean's eyebrows arched up. "You got Frankenstein to take them down a notch?" Aaron nodded. "Gotta say I'm impressed. But just how did you manage to keep him under control? I thought you smoked your grandfather's instructions."

"It's a long story," Aaron said. "All I can tell you is that I've managed to take on full responsibility for the Golem. Since you and your brother left town, we found four more members of the Thule and put them down. Gunshot or snapped neck, just like you said."

"Hack and burn the bodies?"

"Uh-huh. Did it all at night when nobody would be watching." Aaron smothered a yawn. "Then getting up early every morning for services. Being a member of the Judah Initiative is a full-time job."

"It must have some perks," Dean suggested. "Smart Jewish guy in town has a way with the ladies?"

"None of your business."

Dean smirked. "Is she hot?"

"None of your business." But Aaron was still grinning.

"We'll pick this up later," Dean said as he got back into the car.

"Visiting hours are Saturday nights after seven!" Aaron called out before the Winchesters drove off.

A-A-A

"_You are not obligated to complete the task. But neither are you exempt from starting it."_ –Ethics of our Fathers, chapter 2

"Hello, this is the Alexis de Tochqueville Library. How can I help you?"

"Yes we have it on hold and it will be ready for pickup in two days…"

"I'm sorry but that's for in-library use only. But we will have it reserved for you and page copies can be made on the fourth floor."

"New registration is extension four three zero. Hold on and I'll transfer you."

"…recommend starting with Victorian classics and then work your way into the Edwardian Era…"

"…name is spelled with a K and not a C. Okay, I'm pulling up _The Lighthouse Garden_ by Arthur Kushman, is that?"

"The number on that is—do you have a pen? Good. It's six four zero three dot eight nine."

"…what am _I_ wearing?"

The librarian hung up the phone with a decisive _click_. She placed both hands behind her neck and pressed inward, causing a faint pop against her vertebrae. The motion brought a moment of temporary relief and she reached for the next stack of books to process, only to find a hand extending a cup of coffee.

"Rough day, huh?" Aaron asked.

When Margo Green smiled her mouth took up almost half of her face. She had eleven freckles that spread across the bridge of her nose and rolls of dark brown hair that were semi-tamed thanks to the efforts of a woven headband. She wore a gray wool dress cinched at the waist with a wide brown belt and matching boots.

She gratefully accepted the cup and took a sip. "You're amazing. How did you know this is what I needed?"

"Wednesday feels like a double mocha day to me. You got a minute?"

"Sure. Lauren, can you cover for me?"

The other librarian gave Margo a warning look. "Be back in ten minutes."

"We'll make it five," Aaron assured her. He opened the front door for Margo and followed her outside. The November afternoon was cold but clear and they quickly sat down on the wooden bench outside.

"So, how'd you think I did?" Aaron asked carefully. "Was last night a snooze-fest?"

"Are you kidding? You were great," Margo insisted. "The college kids loved your lecture and couldn't stop talking about the 'new cool rabbi' in town and your topic_: 'Tolkien and Torah: Wisdom from Middle Earth and our Sages_'. Inspiring and fun. Where did you come up with such an original idea?"

"_Lord of the Rings_ marathon," he admitted. "And a couple of Talmud books helped."

"Maybe you could do another one next month with a science-fiction theme."

"Sounds good." Aaron rubbed his eyes. "But I have to give myself a breather."

Margo looked concerned. "I can't tell you much I admire everything you've been doing lately. But I'm worried about you, Aaron. You need to take better care of yourself."

"Don't worry about me," he assured her. "It's just this project Grandpa Bass left me to do before he passed away. He had specific instructions for me to complete as soon as possible."

"How long is this project going to take?"

"Not much longer," he assured her. "I'll let you know when it's done. And after that..." He let his voice trail off for a minute.

"Disneyworld?" Margo suggested.

"I was thinking of Chicago."

"Chicago is good. Great pizza. Frigid weather though, this time of year. What's in Chicago?"

"I've been studying to become an official rabbi," Aaron announced.

Margo's eyes lit up. "Aaron, that's great! I'm so proud of you! How long have you been doing this?"

"Four months and counting. I take the test in Chicago, get approved and ordained, grab a pizza, and _then_ we go to Disneyworld."

"As Rabbi Bass and Miss Green?"

"For now. You know what they say about work before pleasure."

"Or Hebrew School before the Magic Kingdom."

"Exactly."

There was a moment of silence between them that confirmed their synchronized thoughts. Suddenly, Aaron started laughing which caused Margo to break out into giggles. She wiped her eyes. "Are we still on for Friday night dinner? Four undergrads and I are doing potluck. You have to bring dessert."

"I'll be there," he promised. "Cell phones off."

"Promise?"

"Promise."

"You're awesome."

"No, you're awesome!"

"Awesomiester."

"That's not a word."

"Yes it is. It's Yiddish."

"For what?"

"Mister Awesome."

"That's 'Rabbi Awesome' to you."

A quick round of snickering was brought short when Margo had to head back into the library. Aaron glanced over his shoulder wistfully.

A petite nerdy brunette had _not_ been on his list of top priorities a year ago. But then again, neither had inheriting a giant naked Golem in a box or expecting his grandfather to suddenly be murdered at the hands of psychotic Nazis raised back from the dead. He had spent years trying to suppress his Jewish obligations, feeling the weight of "does" and "donts" pressing down on him so heavily along with guilt and remorse that Aaron just wanted to bury his head in the sand.

Things changed after Grandpa Bass died—_by catching on fire_- and those _goyim_ suddenly showed up in their cheap suits, fake badges, and shotguns to find out who did it. Big, tough, and strong, they were everything Aaron wasn't. Well, everything he thought he wasn't chocked up to be. Aaron couldn't tell if he was envious because they were tall and good-looking, the kind of guys who get all the girls, or terrified because they were downright psychotic. Who burns a body in the middle of the night without blinking an eye?

A hunter.

Okay, so he found out there was a lot of insane crap out there aside from the arrogant bastards who thought it was a good idea to follow the Fuhrer and made life miserable for his grandfather and the other European Jews. But Aaron would leave the other _meshugina_ problems to the professionals which in this case meant the Winchesters. He had his own obligations to think about: like making sure to pick up some Manischewitz wine and a box of brownies for dinner.

A tall slim man from a building across the street had been watching everything. He had light red hair slicked off his forehead and green glacial eyes. He waited until Margo and Aaron had left the library bench before putting his binoculars down.

The man gnashed his teeth together and silently cursed.

A-A-A

He had been watching the apartment long enough to know that as soon as it got dark on Friday nights, Aaron would not be home. He'd lock up and then go down the street to one of the campus buildings for the Shabbat meal.

_So predictable_, the man with the green eyes thought. The weeks in the shadows were finally going to pay off. He had managed to pick the lock and carefully crept his way into the apartment. He ignored the cheap furniture, the stereo, even the piles of graphic novels and Torah books that lay on the table and were stacked on the shelves.

No, what he was seeking was going to be even more conspicuous.

Under the bed and in the bathroom proved nothing useful. Making his way up the stairs, he noticed a tiny string protruding from the ceiling. The man tugged down on it and a stepladder descended in front of him.

Climbing up the steps with a flashlight, he made his way into the attic. The man shined his light down upon a massive being that lay on the attic floor. A lesser person would have recoiled in fear at the sight of what appeared to be an enormous man stretched out at his feet. But the man was not at all alarmed. In fact, he was delighted.

The man's teeth parted into a shiny smile. He removed the bag he was carrying and took out several tools and an ancient book. Leafing through it, he murmured to himself until he found the page he was looking for. The man examined the letters in the book and then studied the immobilized creature in front of him.

There was work to do.

A-A-A

Friday night dinner passed in a whirlwind of hysterical jokes, a teriyaki stir-fry made with beef in lieu of pork, a thoughtful insight on the weekly Torah portion, and just enough wine to get everyone breaking out into their favorite nostalgic songs.

Still feeling high from a sugar rush, Margo had no objections to walking part of the way with Aaron. He never invited her over and at first she presumed he didn't want her to see a messy place. But lately she theorized that his "project" required privacy and no distractions.

"It's not Metallica, it's the Rolling Stones," Aaron insisted.

"Are you sure?"

"Absolutely. I'll prove it to you."

"Okay but if I'm right then you owe me a stuffed animal," she warned him.

Margo waited for Aaron to start the next joke but he had halted in his tracks. She saw him facing his apartment building. There was a light on inside and two figures shadowed against the drapes. One was slim and of average height while the other nearly touched the ceiling.

Aaron's voice dropped several octaves. "Margo, I need you to get out of here right away. Run as fast as you can and call 911." He handed her his cell phone and started for the door.

"Wait, no!" Margo grabbed him by the wrist. "What, are you crazy Aaron? You don't know what's in there!"

"Yes I do." He suddenly seized her by the shoulders and looked Margo in the face. His eyes were wide with worry and determination. "And you have to trust me on this one. Do not follow me. Run like hell and get the police—no, wait. If the police don't come, wait for these guys."

He pressed a piece of paper into her hand. Margo looked down at what he had scrawled on it. "Are those weapons?"

"Don't tell anyone. Go, now. RUN!" he shouted.

He shoved her hard. Margo took off running in the opposite direction and punched numbers into the phone.

"H-hello, police? I'm reporting a break in on 22nd street and Gopher. Y-yes, I'm right outside and we just saw something on the-OH MY GOD AARON!" she screamed. Aaron was running straight for his front door. She watched his hand reach for the front door and push it open.

The front windows of the house exploded into shards of glass that showered down into the street, followed by waves of fire that curled up the sides of the house. Aaron's body went flying through the air and went crashing to the ground where it landed in a crumpled heap. Several car sirens began trilling around them.

"AARON!"

A-A-A

"_You have taken my companions and my loved ones from me; the darkness is my closest friend." _-Psalm 88

Usually when there was a sudden death with unusual circumstances surrounding it, Sam and Dean would "suit up" and start asking friends and family if the deceased had been threatened or disturbed by anyone.

But this time Dean Winchester could easily narrow down the list of suspects.

The funeral was abrupt and quick. Sam had said something about Jewish funerals doting on burying the body as soon as possible. They watched the ceremony from the other side of the cemetery, not wanting to be noticed in the crowd. Most of the attendees were elderly and bearded, Sam noticed, and one teary-eyed couple must have been Aaron's parents. There were a handful of the college kids with stony faces and a young woman with a black beret pulled down tightly over her forehead; a black triangle on top of a white square of a face.

Dean just starred at the stone marker with stony silence. _Goddmanit. Aaron didn't deserve this, _he cursed inwardly. The Thule were going to pay for it. Sam kept his lips sealed as he and his brother watched everyone else shovel dirt over the coffin and then recite prayers aloud. No matter how many times they went through this, it never got easier. In fact sometimes Sam wondered how they could move on with the burdens that continued to heap themselves onto their shoulders.

Because there was no other choice. Because Dean would not allow either of them the opportunity to be silent. There had been evil here; razor-sharp blood-saturated evil in this place, and he'd be damned before letting it slide.

The Winchesters waited 24 hours to proceed. Sam was sent to interrogate the last person Aaron had been with, his quasi-girlfriend, while Dean went to check on the tiny synagogue on the other side of town.

A-A-A

Margo had been buried in her black hole of a room ever since she got back from Aaron's funeral. Cold pills were the only way to wear off the shock of the crisis. Just thinking about their conversation outside the library made her break down crying again.

The fire had been no accident. But who would do such a thing? Everyone liked Aaron! If there was a valid reason then it remained a heavy cloud in Margo's mind that refused to disperse. Somewhere inside was a nagging theory that Aaron had been hiding _something_ important; something that endangered his life.

Otherwise it would be the old-fashioned motive and that was just unbearable right now.

The constant knocking on the front door was grating on Margo's nerves. Groggily lifting her head off the pillow, she realized she had slept away the entire afternoon.

"Coming!" she shouted downstairs, struggling to get out of bed. Margo yanked her hair into a scrunchie, pulled a sweater over her head, and staggered downstairs. Peeping through the door hole, she was presented with a federal badge.

"Miss Green? Special Agent Wallace, FBI. Do you have a minute?"

She did have a minute and no, she did not want to give it to him. Nevertheless, Margo heaved a sigh and opened the door. Margo had expected to see a middle-aged man with salt-and-pepper hair or a generous moustache. Instead she almost had to crane her neck to look up at the young man who towered over her five feet and four inches. He was in his late 20's with hazel eyes and shaggy dark hair that was too long for Margo's taste.

Agent Wallace, alias Sam Winchester, tucked the badge back into his jacket. "I understand you were a friend of Aaron Bass and wanted to ask you some questions about him. May I come in, please?"

Sam knew that look on people's faces when they were so overwrought with grief that they didn't want to open up, especially to the authorities. Margo Green's face was splotchy and there were purple circles under her eyes.

Using his most gentle voice, Sam pressed on. "I know this must be a terrible and sudden loss for you. But if you could spare me some time, it will help us shed some light on the matter."

She nodded wearily. Sam followed Margo inside, noticing a tiny silver cylinder that had been nailed to the doorpost on a slant. She gestured to a kitchen chair and he sat down.

"Tea? I have peppermint or Earl Grey."

"Peppermint, thank you." Sam wasn't thirsty but he knew when people needed distractions. The facial muscles in Margo's face seemed to relax a bit as she put the kettle on the stove and got out tea bags.

"Miss Green, how long did you know Aaron Bass?"

"I knew him since last year when Aaron moved onto the campus grounds," Margo began. "But we didn't spent time together then. He hung out with a different crowd from mine. I overheard Aaron remark how he went to Hebrew Day School as a kid but had left that life behind. He said he didn't want to have anything to do with it anymore."

Margo placed the tea bags into cups. "Then a few months ago, after his grandfather passed away, Aaron started coming to the central library more often. He'd check out books on Jewish observance and ask me to order some more for him. We started chatting and going out for coffee. One day I asked him to come for a Shabbat dinner. I thought he'd say 'no' but figured it couldn't hurt to ask. He came and we had a great time. Then he started giving Torah lectures to the other Jewish kids on campus."

A faint smile crossed her face. "Watching him change these last few months, coming back to his heritage and faith, it was something special. Like someone in your family that you haven't seen in years was finally returning home. Did you know that Aaron was studying to become a rabbi? Nobody pushed him to do it. He _wanted_ to follow in his grandfather's footsteps."

Margo glanced at Agent Wallace. He had a pensive expression on his face and his eyes were full of warm emotion. He seemed to sympathize with her.

The tea kettle whistled behind her. "Why is the FBI looking into this?" Margo asked abruptly. "Was Aaron caught up in something dangerous? Did he have a criminal record?"

"Aaron wasn't in any danger with the authorities," Sam assured her quickly. "His file was clean."

"Then who would do this?"

"We don't for certain yet and that's why we're examining all options," Sam explained diplomatically.

Margo poured hot water into cups. Then she suddenly added, "Aaron said he was working on something his grandfather left him from the war."

Sam leaned forward in his chair. "Did he say what it was?"

"No. He didn't tell me anything. Now I can't help but wonder what he kept under wraps. Maybe Rabbi Isaac Bass had something to do with Swiss bank accounts or a valuable legacy that needed protecting. I've heard a lot of people didn't want war survivors reclaiming their possessions."

_If you knew the truth you wouldn't believe it_, Sam thought. _But close enough._

She handed Sam a teacup and sat down across the table from him. Sam fiddled with the handle of his cup. "I know what it's like to lose someone you care about. And how frustrating it is when you want to do something, anything, to save them. But you can't. They're gone…and you're still here."

Margo starred at Agent Wallace. Five minutes all she could think about was attacking his hair with a pair of scissors. Now there was no mistaking the sincerity in his voice. If she wasn't feeling so frustrated then Margo might have wanted to confide some more. But the shields remained up.

"I might be paranoid but can't say it wasn't anti-Semitism either," Margo said cautiously.

"Have there been any local threats to religious institutions in town?" She shook her head. "Then I wouldn't rule it out either," Sam said. He took out a pen and paper. "Was Aaron showing any signs of stress or intense fear? Anybody following him?"

She shook her head.

"What about strange smells? Unusual signs around his house? Was he hallucinating at all?"

Margo's eyes narrowed at Sam. "What are you suggesting? Aaron told me that he hadn't touched drugs in years."

"It's just part of the procedure. Please," he added.

"I've told you everything I know," Margo said irately. She was starting to lose her temper. "And your questions are starting to sound irrelevant."

"No offense intended," Sam insisted. He cleared his throat. "I have to ask you a, uh, personal question too. Just how intimate was your relationship with Aaron Bass?"

A red spot had appeared on each of Margo's cheeks. "Excuse me?"

"Did he spill secrets or talk in his sleep about—"

"Get out," she suddenly snapped at Sam.

"Right. Sorry to take up your time."

He quickly tucked his notepad back into his pocket and backed up to the door, stumbling against the coat rack and almost knocking it over. An empty coffee mug went flying through the air and narrowly missed his forehead. He was halfway out the door when it went crashing against the doorframe. Sam shut the door behind him and quickly ran down the steps.

His cell phone rang just in time. Sam flipped it open and pressed it to his ear.

"Tell me you got something," he said to Dean.

"_Not much. I asked around the synagogue where Aaron had been going for about three months. A bunch of old geysers had nothing to add about him. "A nice kid", they all said. Looks like he kept everything about the Golem and Judah Initiative under wraps. What about you?"_

"Nothing here. He didn't tell his girlfriend either." Sam pinched the bridge of his nose. "They kept their relationship strictly plutonic."

"_Sammy, there's no such thing."_

"Well, he didn't spend nights at her place. And it's not as if Aaron could have had sleepovers with a Golem hiding in his basement."

"_Point taken. Check local motel rooms."_

"Dean, I don't think he did that kind of thing."

"_Got any better ideas?"_

"No, but—"

"_Then get to it."_ There was a decisive _click_ as Dean hung up.

Sam sighed inwardly. He wanted to stop the Thule as much as his brother but he knew when Dean got his teeth into a case it was hard for him to take a step back and assess the situation. Fueled by rage and a desire for justice, Dean's emotions could blind him from taking the best approach. It would take some time for him to cool off. So as much as he disliked a wild goose chase, Sam would keep quiet and follow his brother for now.

The alternative was to handle the case alone and that wasn't something Sam Winchester enjoyed doing at all.

A-A-A

Margo sat at the kitchen table drumming a pen against a blank pad of paper. Agent Wallace had asked some very strange questions that she kept going over in her head but nothing would fit together. She looked down at the name written on Aaron's scrap of paper:

WINCHESTER

Unable to make heads or tails of the word, Margo rolled the paper up into a little ball and shoved it into her pocket with frustration.

_RAT-TAT-TAT!_

Half-dreading Agent Wallace, she was surprised to find a police officer on the doorstep. Somewhat balding and stout in the stomach, he was more of what she expected than the previous visitor.

"Miss Green?" he asked. "I understand that you're interested in finding out about Aaron Bass' death. Would you be able to answer some questions?"

"I already spoke with the authorities," she insisted.

"I'm certain you did but some evidence recently turned up. Would you mind coming to the scene of the crime?"

She nodded. "I'll get my coat." Margo's back was turned for a moment so she didn't see the officer eye the silver scroll on her doorpost warily.

As soon a Margo crossed the threshold, the officer's eyes flooded to black and he cuffed her across the back of the head. Margo went crashing down the steps and landed on the ground in a heap.

The Impala was making rounds after six dead ends in local motels when they noticed the officer in front of Margo's house. He was dragging her body towards his car.

"Dean!" Sam shouted.

"I see it." Dean slammed his foot on the pedal.

The officer dove back into his car, started the ignition, and drove straight off the lawn with the Impala tailing him. Both cars swerved around the corner, tires squealing mercilessly. The cop car ran two red lights and Dean was cut off by an oncoming pickup truck. He cursed under his breath.

"Don't worry," Sam assured him. "I put a tracer in Margo's coat pocket."

Dean watched his brother pry open his laptop and type in some coordinates.

"Good work, Sammy."

A-A-A

"_The only thing necessary for the triumph of evil is for good men to do nothing_." –Edmund Burke

A trickle of blood stained Margo's mouth. She smelled mold and dust rising up from the ground. The place must've been one of several abandoned warehouses on the other side of town. Her head was swimming profusely but she forced herself to focus on the two men who loomed in front of her. One was the police officer, the other a pimply-faced teen with a small goatee. Both of their eyes were veiled in black.

If this was a practical joke then it was in bad taste.

"Last time, kiddo. What did Bass tell you about the book?" demanded the teen.

"I don't know anything!" she insisted. "I swear. Aaron didn't tell me anything about a book on Kabbalah. I don't even study it!"

The cop smacked a metal rod against his open palm. "Want us to write that on your tombstone?"

The conversation was cut short by a crisp voice from the shadows. "Gentlemen, gentlemen. I asked you to remove the informant—not bash her brains out. At least not yet."

The English grammar was precise but the accent was foreign. _Swiss? Austrian?_ Margo wracked her brains for an answer.

She watched the shadowed figure draw closer in the glaring light of a single bulb. He was all angles and points from his sharp nose down to his polished black shoes. The crisp mouth and pale green eyes narrowed down at Margo in disgust. _All that's missing is a uniform and armband,_ she thought.

He sat down on an overturned crate and produced a heavy red ledger. The man removed a single glove and proceeded to leaf through the papers. Margo noticed a heavy signet ring on the fourth finger of his hand.

"I understand that you were close with the grandson of Rabbi Isaac Bass. You will be reunited with him soon enough."

Margo's innards quivered. "You killed Aaron?" she asked weakly.

"I did." His voice was precise as a watch ticking.

"Why?"

He lifted his head up slowly. "Why does a surgeon hate a tumor? Why does a cat hate a mouse? You stiff-necked Semites have been a stain on humanity's history for centuries." He held the ledger in front of him. "This is a testimony of our great mission: to conquer immortality and rid the world of your kind for eternity."

_It _was_ anti-Semitism. Damnit, should've listened to Agent Wallace. _

"Of course we had some obstacles along the way. Those murmuring rabbis with their secrets and Mosaic incantations had created something that would set our plans back for some time. But my comrades and I were patient. We waited years strike back."

_This guy is in the loony bin. _

"Then you must be disappointed. The war ended in 1945," Margo blurted out. "You're decades late to start rubbing us out."

"The battle, fraulein. Not the war," he corrected her. "The rabbis who dared to call themselves an 'Initiative' merely put their plans on hold. And so did we."

He shut the ledger and leaned forth on his knees. "How old do I look? Thirty five or so? It doesn't matter. I've waited over six decades for revenge. Six decades of sleepless nights and fearful days. But no more. I will go down in history as the man who cheated death."

"You're mad," Margo insisted.

"I'm an idealist," the Nazi defended himself. "Even after my comrades were hunted down by that dog of a Jew, Aaron Bass, I knew I could strike a final blow against him and his precious Judah Initiative. And I did."

His mouth parted revealing sharp white teeth. "A simple combustion device took him out of the picture easily. The crucial part was acquiring this ledger and his legacy."

Heavy footsteps echoed in the background. The lightbulb quivered over Margo's head. Her eyes widened in horror as a giant figure drew into the light, taller than any of them. The meaty hands hung still on either side, the thick sinew neck and bulging muscles revealing strength that surpassed any mortal man. The eyes were blank and staring straight ahead.

"This is what your so-called righteous Aaron was hiding in his attic." The Nazi rose and motioned to the giant. "I believe you used to hear bedtime stories about the Golem, no? Big powerful beings made from the earth."

Her mouth was frozen wide open as Margo starred up at the Golem. "Impossible," she croaked out.

"Not as impossible as you think. The rabbis used Kabbalah to raise the Golem from the ground. That same magic will make the beast continue to obey to the master." He pulled the glove back over his hand. "You are going to die one way or the other. But your final moments will be less painful if you tell me where Aaron Bass kept his book of instructions on the Golem."

Too many thoughts were spinning in Margo's head but she mentally grabbed onto the most crucial one she could muster and forced herself to look up at her enemy.

"I already told you that I don't know anything about Aaron having a book of instructions. Just like I didn't know he kept a Golem in his house."

"I'm very disappointed to hear that. It seems you won't be of much use to me after all," he remarked.

"What I can tell you is this: Aaron was a thousand times the man you are." Heat trickled down Margo's throat. "We're not mice or vermin. We are human beings created in God's image. And if the rabbis _did_ take a stand against you in the war then I swear someone else will stop you again."

The Nazi cocked his head to one side. Suddenly he burst out into a fit of crackling laughter. The black-eyed demons next to him sniggered. Their leader ceased laughing long enough to wipe his eyes.

"Green, isn't it? Miss Margo Green, history always repeats itself. Nobody lifted a finger when we drove your ancestors into the fires. What makes you think someone is coming to save you now?"

He motioned to the Golem who strode up to Margo. Massive hands grabbed her and lifted Margo several feet into the air while her legs dangling helplessly above the ground. The thick fingers wrapped around her neck, starting to squeeze the air out of her lungs. Margo's breathing became faint and whispery.

"You promised we'd have some fun with her first," insisted the teenaged demon.

"Oh, very well." He raised a hand and the Golem dropped Margo. She landed on the ground in a chocking heap, only able to focus when the two demons approached her with weapons in their hands.

Weak and shocked to the core, Margo had little strength left save that to part her lips. No voice came out of her throat but she forced herself to mouth the words. _"Shma Yisrael Adonai Elohainu…"_

The sound of the cop howling stopped her prayer. Margo saw his chest had been punctured and he was writhing in pain. The cop collapsed forward, revealing a young man in street clothes who was holding a shotgun.

"How dare you!" the Nazi sneered. The man punched him in the jaw, sending the Thule member sprawling back.

"You wanna mess with me?" Dean Winchester demanded.

Margo tried getting to her feet but her legs wobbled. She watched Dean try to take on the Nazi and the cop-demon with his rifle of rock salt but the teen was charging towards her. She felt someone shielding her with his body and then the long-haired FBI agent was there, grabbing her by the arms and pulling Margo to her feet.

"Sam, look out!" Dean shouted.

Margo and Sam ducked when the Golem's arm swept over their heads and sent a column of barrels crashing to the ground.

"Hey, woah! Take it easy," Dean said, coming around from behind the Golem. "Remember us? We're Aaron's pals!" The Golem whirled on Dean. Its eyes were glassy and it made no sound. Dean was vaguely aware of something his brother had said, something about Golems not supposed to talk—

"Dean!"

The older Winchester was seized by the wrist and yanked forward, almost ripping his arm out of his socket. He went slamming against the concrete wall and fell flat against the floor. Sam was by his brother's side in an instant.

"I don't think he recognizes us! Somehow that guy's got him under control."

"You have that right," their adversary remarked. He pointed a finger at the Golem. "I command you to stop them!" The giant instantly went charging towards Sam, Margo, and Dean.

"Go! Go!" Sam shouted, half pulling and half pushing her towards a car. He shoved Margo into the Impala's backseat and looked behind him to see Dean attack one of the demons with a knife. The teen wasn't dead but he had certainly slowed down. The Thule member was getting to his feet and yelling at the other one to go after them. Sam quickly opened the driver's door but Dean had lugged the unconscious teen and stuffed him into the trunk.

"We have to go now!" Sam begged him. It seemed to take forever for Dean to slam down the trunk door and get into the front seat.

Dean turned on the ignition but the car wouldn't go. He looked in the rear view mirror and saw that the Golem had grabbed onto the back of the Impala. He pressed down the accelerator but the car merely shuddered in place.

"C'mon, c'mon," he growled frantically. Dean suddenly switched to reverse gear and the Impala bucked backwards, hitting the Golem in the chest. He resumed forward and the wheels squealed mercilessly. There was a definite _CRUNCH_ and the Impala finally took off like a bullet out of a gun. The car drove through a rickety wooden gate, sending splinters of wood everywhere, and out of the warehouse. The last thing Dean saw in the mirror was the Golem standing stoically with a piece of metal from the Impala's back fender in his hand.

"That son of a bitch wrecked my baby!" he exploded.

Sam looked at his brother in exasperation. "Be glad he that's all he did. Why'd you take the demon?"

"We need information. Why'd they take her?"

"Not sure. They were talking about..."

Margo's head was spinning and every vibration of the car was making her sick to her stomach. She heard voices but couldn't process their words.

_They saved me. But who are they? Where are we going? _

Streetlamps dashed past the Impala and threw darts of light on Margo's face. Her head wobbled loosely as the world turned bright and airy around her.

"Margo?" Sam glanced in the backseat. "Margo Green!"

_Aaron, why did you lie to me?_

The light quickly faded into darkness, wrapping itself around Margo and pulling her underground.

A-A-A

Glossary and terms

_Yarmulke _– Skullcap. Also known as a kippah

_Talmud _– Rabbinic books that discuss the Oral Law of Jewish life known as the Mishna

_Goyim_ – Gentiles. The term simply translated from Hebrew means "nation"

_Meshugina _– Crazy

_Shma Yisrael_ – Deuteronomy 6:4 is a prayer that Jews recite as a testament of faith. "Hear O Israel, the Lord is our God, the Lord is One."


	2. Chapter 2

The Thule member was left standing in the warehouse with the Golem and the cop-demon. The Golem remained stone-faced while holding the bit of the Impala.

"Idiot!" his master screamed, whirling on the cop. "What have you done?" He slapped the demon across the face, who seemed more annoyed than injured.

"What did _I_ do?" the cop demanded. "It wasn't my fault those hunters followed us. Why don't you take it out on your big walking robo-man?" He kicked the Golem in frustration. It made no response.

"You didn't say anything about hunters!" sneered the Nazi. "This could ruin everything."

"They're just two guys," the cop protested. "I've slaughtered dozens like them before."

"Really?" his comrade grimaced. "That duo seemed quite adapt at their trade. And if you haven't noticed, they just removed one of your associates."

"The guy's a jackass. See if I care if they cut him into pieces."

"Then pray you're not the next demon on their list," he hissed. "Nobody makes exceptions in this line of work."

For once the cop looked edgy.

"I agree," a male voice murmured from behind them. "But we do make bargains."

The Nazi whirled around to see a man dressed in a three-piece black suit standing before them. A silver-tipped cane was in his hand.

The cop swallowed nervously. "M-Mister Crowley! I, I didn't think that—"

"Yes, that's just it. You _didn't_ think." Crowley shook his head at the minion. "You left your noodle at home and let this baby-faced _dumpkof_ lead you around by the balls."

The green-eyed man glared at the insult. Crowley merely shrugged at him. "No need to get your knickers in a twist, lad. We have bigger things to worry about."

"As for you." He lifted his cane and pointed it at the cop. "I'll deal with you later. Pop on downstairs before daddy gets mad." The cop's back arched and black smoke poured out his mouth until an unconscious body lay at Crowley's feet. He ignored it and stepped towards the Thule member.

"Nice piece of work you've got here." Crowley knocked his cane against the silent Golem. "Taking commissions, are we?"

"What I do is none of your business," the man retorted.

"On the contrary, lad. Anytime anyone borrows my flunkies, it's damn well my business. Let me guess. Bats in your belfry?"

The man said nothing.

"Teufel, Teufel, we're all on the same side," Crowley insisted. "Why get hot under the collar right now? I'm a big admirer of your work. Just thinking about good ol' Deutschland brings a smile to my face."

He stepped up right into the face of the man named Teufel. "Just remember that I'm the bloody King of Hell and _I don't like people using my minions without permission!"_ he exploded with rage.

"It's bad enough that you make a bloody mess all over town but nicking my chess pieces right and left is downright sloppy. And you have the balls to call yourself a member of the Nazi party."

A vein was pulsing in Teufel's right temple. "Do not patronize me, demon."

"Then don't be such an asshole," Crowley shot back. "I have an army of demons at my command. Tell me why I shouldn't send you downstairs for them to chew the marrow off your bones."

"I have the Golem," Teufel reminded him. Seeing Crowley's surprised face, he nodded grimly. "The sorcery behind him is worth tenfold of your minions. I'm guessing he would be useful to you too."

Crowley exhaled sharply between his nostrils. "True, true. And that's a very good commodity, having something that doesn't blabber all the time." He seemed to calm down again.

"Herr Teufel, let's not quarrel. We actually have some things in common. You admired ol' Adolf, so do I. Big fan, in fact. You have work to do, so do I. We both have honey bees that need to be smoked out of their hive."

Teufel eyed him skeptically. "What do you want?"

It was Crowley's turn to sit upon the crate. "A guess at who crashed your party. Ten to one says it was two blokes. A loud-mouthed fool in flannel and a big milksop of a moose."

The silence between them confirmed Crowley's suspicions. "Winchesters," he announced.

Teufel rubbed his chin in thought. "These…Winchesters. They're the ones who told the rabbi's grandson how to kill my members?"

"Yes." Crowley smirked. "It's because of them that you're alone and on the run."

"They got away," Teufel glowered.

"Not for long," Crowley assured him. "Thing about these Winchesters is that they're like worms. Sooner or later, they need to come back to the surface for air."

A-A-A

_1944_

Malka snuck out of the makeshift basement where the rabbis had been talking in hushed whispers. What conversations she had been privileged to listen to would never be repeated and so she knew she would take those secrets to the grave.

Hell was about to break loose.

Reuniting with Rachel in the women's' barracks, Malka Grunberg nudged her little sister awake and dressed her in layers of clothing. They were tattered and smelled of dung but would keep Rachel warm. She tucked a packet of papers into Rachel's coat and explained the route that would take them to the Bielski Partisans in the forest where they'd be taken care of.

"This is important for the war effort," Malka explained gravely. "Don't open them until you are safe in the Bielski camp."

"Why don't you take them?" Rachel panicked. "Why are you giving them to me? Can't you do it?"

"It's because nobody will suspect you, silly." Malka assured her. "Cute kids always get away with it."

Rachel rubbed her dripping nose. It was hard to believe she was only fifteen years old and that Malka was twenty one. The last few years had sucked all the joy and beauty out of them until the sisters were little more than gaunt matchsticks; just shells of their former selves.

"Rachel." Malka squared Rachel's shoulders and looked her sister in the face. "I'm your big sister. Mama and Papa left me in charge. So you have to do exactly as I tell you. If I say run, you run. If I say go north, you go north. Just listen to me and everything will be all right."

Rachel nodded. A weak smile flickered on her face. "We'll always be together, won't we?"

A thousand words were on the tip of Malka's tongue but she said nothing. She merely bent forward and kissed her sister on her dirty forehead. "Yes, Rachel. Nothing in the world will keep us apart."

They waited for the beaming lights to move away. There was a rumbling sound like thunder and then Rachel saw the door of the soldiers' barracks go flying off the hinges. Fire had sprung up from within the building and she saw a giant figure rising from the flames. Two Nazis ran towards it with raised bayonets but it brought down a hand and knocked them down as if they were tin toys.

"M-Malka," she stammered, pointing to the figure. "What on earth is that _thing_?"

Malka just had a grim smile on her face. "Vengeance." She grabbed her sister's hand and they both fled into the thicket of action.

There was chaos in the camp. Sirens were screaming, prisoners were running, and gunshots cracked across the square. An officer by the name of Teufel had just run outside when his superior officer grabbed him by the shoulder.

"I will take care of that thing," he announced, pointing to the Golem who had just broken the front of a tank. "You make sure none of the prisoners escape. Shoot upon sight."

"Don't worry, sir. I will make sure of it."

"You'd better be," the general warned him. His dark eyes bore into Teufel's skull. "If even one Jew survives then the vengeance of the Hebrew God will pour down upon all of us."

Teufel felt a trickle of fear run down his spine but he quickly suppressed it. He saluted to the general and motioning to four of his men, charged forward with machine guns. Bullets sprayed forth and blood splattered on the ground. Out of the corner of his eye, Teufel saw two girls squeezing through a hole in the fence.

"After them!" he shouted. Another soldier with a bloodhound on a leash followed Teufel.

Heavy boots and canine teeth pursued the girls who ran through the woods, leaping over logs and crouching under branches. Malka kept her grip on Rachel's coat, thrusting her sister ahead of her.

"Faster, Rachel! Faster!"

The popping sound of a pistol echoed in the woods. A bullet buzzed inches from Rachel's head. When they reached the edge of a cliff that dropped off into a sharp ravine, she braced herself for the jump. They leapt and landed in a pile of dry leaves. But Malka's face was distorted in pain.

"Go!" she hissed, struggling to limp off her twisted foot.

"NO!" Rachel cried. "I won't leave you."

Malka slapped her sister across the face. "Listen to me!" she hissed between clenched teeth. "Those papers have to reach the Bielskis. You _must_ get them to safety."

"I don't care about the papers! I care about you!" Rachel begged.

Malka pulled her sister close and pressed her lips to Rachel's ear. "I'll find a way to come back to you. I promise."

"Promise?"

"I swear. Now go!"

The beams from flashlights were getting closer to Malka. Rachel started off slowly but with a surge of fear coursing through her blood, she dashed deeper into the woods. Blood pumped in her ears, thumping a mantra she repeated to herself. _"I'll come back. I'll come back."_

When Teufel found Malka staggering on a broken foot, he didn't hesitate to put a bullet in her stomach. Blood seeped out of Malka's mouth but instead of falling to her knees, she lifted her head up to him.

Malka Grunberg laughed, a slow gurgling laugh that shook her thin frame to the core. It was a laugh that whispered in the wind and tickled the backs of their necks.

"You're going to lose this war," she muttered as drops of blood spurted onto the ground. "You will never conquer the earth or my people."

Teufel knew he should have made a rebuttal comment but the large gaunt eyes starred into his clean-shaven face and he knew that this woman did not fear him at all. He could destroy her body but never her spirit.

Malka wheezed out, her breath became slower and more ragged. "I swear in the name of the God of Abraham..." She drew out one last breath. "...I swear that I will come back to haunt you."

Two more bullets rang out in the cold air.

Rachel had reached the partisans when she heard the sounds of gunfire getting fainter and fainter from behind her. One of them, a large burly fellow with a red beard, wrapped his heavy jacket around her frail shoulders and hoisted her up into his arms.

"You're safe now," he assured her. "Let's get you fed and cleaned up."

"Wait, my sister," she pleaded weakly. "Malka said catch up with us."

"We have to keep moving or else they'll find us," he warned her.

"But Malka had information for you!" Rachel drew out the packet of papers and handed it to the partisan. He opened it up and much to her bewilderment, merely shook his head and showed her what she had been carrying.

The papers were blank.

"MALKA!" she shrieked, beating her fists against his chest. "No, we have to go back for Malka!"

"We can't. Don't you see? She's gone. Malka wanted you to go on without her." He carried the bundled-up Rachel deeper into the woods. Her arms and legs flayed frantically and she continued to fight her protector.

"You lied to me!" she shrieked hysterically. "You said everything would be all right! You said we'd be together again! Liar! You big horrible liar!"

"Malka," she sobbed over and over again, burying her face in the partisan's chest. "Malka! Malka!"

A-A-A

_Present day:_

Margo waved a hand through the darkness. The air felt cool and immobile, as if time had stopped in this place. Her fingers bumped against something cold and heavy like the base of a lamp. She gripped onto the chain and yanked down.

Pale pink light glowed from the rainbow glass of a Tiffany lamp. Adjusting her eyes, she took in the pale turquoise walls and the white chenille bedspread underneath her body. There was a green braided carpet on the floor and a black lacquered wardrobe and matching dresser in one corner. Everything looked old-fashioned but tidy.

Margo could have sworn she heard the muffled sound of music filtering in through the walls. _So when's the other shoe going to drop? These guys pull me out of a monster-movie interrogation and drop me into Eleanor Roosevelt's boudoir?_

She made her way off the bed slowly, still aware of the quivering sensation in her legs. There were some clothes drapped over a chair that looked faded but clean. Margo left them alone and tested the doorknob. It turned easily, allowing her to step into the corridor.

One end of the hallway led into further darkness. She shuddered and turned away, then edged towards the other end that was coming to a lighted room.

_This can't be the Bat Cave. Aaron said it was much darker and craggier. No, don't go there. Don't think about Aaron. Don't think about the door exploding or that Nazi who's been alive for decades-_

The sound of music was getting stronger. It sounded slightly scratchy as if it was coming from a record player. Was that Frank Sinatra singing?

Margo's bare feet tread carefully across the tiled floor until she came to a large well-furnished room with a decisive Art Deco style to it. The lighting was warm and inviting from additional old-fashioned lamps and the sight of so much literature on the walls was a feast to the eyes. If she hadn't been thrust into such unusual circumstances, Margo would have wanted to explore all the leather-bound books.

The source of music was indeed, a record player, that was whirling away in one corner.

Margo heard voices and quickly ducked behind a sofa, crouching down until her face was parallel with the ground. By tilting eyes up she could see well enough. The big long-haired agent came in and sat down at the table, then proceeded to bind his wrist in bandages. The other one was on his feet and peppering loudly to the agent he called "Sammy."

"We're not going to find anything if we dig up Aaron's grave," Sam insisted.

"Then what else? He didn't have a safety deposit box or any secret maps. We have to find that manual, damnit, before Frankenstein starts raising hell all over town."

"But Aaron said he burned the instructions his grandfather gave him back in high school," Sam protested.

"Then he must've found another copy somehow. I swear Sammy, that's the only thing that makes sense. Aaron told me he had gotten full control of the Golem. Are you suggesting he did that without any manual?"

"I don't know."

Dean threw up his hands. "All right, then. It _had_ to be buried with him. So we'd better go out and find it before that Thule comes back—"

"—and get ourselves killed? Dean, we barely escaped with our necks!" Sam said. "There's a Nazi zombie out there _and_ he's teamed up with demons _and_ the Golem is under his control. It's a suicide mission."

"You got any better ideas? I'm all ears."

Sam shook his head. "Jews don't bury possessions with their loved ones anyway," he insisted firmly. "And they say a prayer called _kaddish_ to make sure the soul has a direct journey up to heaven. So you can count resurrecting Aaron's spirit out."

_How on earth does this guy know everything? _Margo pondered. Dean echoed her thoughts.

"How the hell do you know all this? Oh wait. Jacobson, right? Yeah, my little brother's got a crush on an old wrinkly lady."

"Don't get started," Sam warned his brother.

"Hey, I just wanted to wrap things up and come home to burgers and a ballgame. Instead we're stuck with no leads or clues thanks to Basshole."

"That's not fair, Dean. Aaron put his life on the line to carry out his grandfather's legacy. It's not his fault that things went south."

"Then he was an idiot. He should've gotten someone to help him instead of killing Nazis on his own."

"Help from who? The college kids? War survivors? Aaron was the last member of the Judah Initiative for a reason. He didn't want anyone else getting hurt."

"Tell that to the princess we have stashed in the ivory tower."

There was a moment of frigid silence. Margo was certain that they could hear her heart thundering in her chest. Her eyes scanned the room for an exit but eventually rested upon Dean Winchester. He must've sense someone watching him because he looked straight at the sofa. In three strides he was across the room and yanked it aside, revealing Margo.

She got to her feet and grabbing the nearest lamp. "Stay back!" she warned him, brandishing it in front of her.

Margo expected a snide comment or threat. Much to her surprise, Dean raised his hands in front of himself. "Woah, woah. Take it easy, princess. Nobody's going to hurt you."

From behind him, Sam rose to his feet. "We were friends of Aaron Bass. We're trying to stop the person that killed him."

"You knew Aaron?" She still clutched the lamp in sweaty palms. "Who _are_ you people? You're not the FBI, are you?"

"No. I'm Dean and this is Sam," came the answer. "We're the Winchesters. Hunters."

Margo didn't know what a hunter was but the word _Winchester_ suddenly unlocked a door in her mind. She felt herself still wavering between trust and uncertainty but following her instincts, and Aaron's last instructions, dared to set the lamp down carefully.

Dean approved. "I swear, if we were going to hurt you then we would've done it already. And we wouldn't have taken you back to our secret hideout either."

"Secret hideout," she repeated. There were no windows anywhere. It was hard to tell what time of day it was.

Sam took two steps forward. "Margo, I'm sorry you were dragged into this. But now that you're here, it's time you learned everything."

"How? I don't understand a single thing that's going on."

Dean motioned to a chair. "You'd better sit down for this one."

She glanced at the chair and then at Dean uneasily. From behind him, Sam's face registered a plea for cooperation. Unable to see an exit or any signs of threats, Margo gingerly sat down.

A-A-A

Margo would never forget the next twenty minutes of her life.

Everything she knew about the world until now had been removed from her head and re-fitted into a new jigsaw puzzle. Somehow a crystal glass of whiskey was produced and between sips and sputters, she listened as the Winchesters carefully explained everything: who they were, what they did, how they met Aaron, and what he had been doing.

"Its nuts," she said at last, shaking her head in disbelief. "It's all nuts. Monsters, demons, ghosts. You're saying you deal with all of these things?"

The Winchesters nodded.

"Why didn't I know about this before?"

"Some of them don't want people to know they exist. And I think some Jewish rituals are insurance against the supernatural," Sam suggested slowly. "Like the talisman nailed on your doorpost."

"The _mezuzah_? But that's a piece of parchment with some Biblical text, that's all."

"It kept the demon from crossing the threshold," Dean pointed out. "What about the silver candlesticks in the window?"

"Shabbat candles."

"Aaron's shaker of salt?"

"For the bread on Sabbath meals."

"The cup of holy water?"

"It's just tap water," she insisted. "You pour it over your hands every morning and make a blessing."

"Call it what you will. Demons don't like those things."

"_Meshuginah_. Nuts," she repeated.

"I know it is. But we live in Goobertown, kiddo, and we need you to keep it together."

"How do you know those freaks aren't in here spying on us?"

"This place is fortified," Dean grinned. "And you've been drinking holy water mixed with whiskey which, though I find disgusting, proves you're not a walking meat puppet either."

"Oh." Margo fiddled with her glass.

"Enough of that. We need to show you something."

Dean motioned for Margo to follow him. Sam went too as they headed down the corridor to a room with a padlock on the door. Dean got it open and pried open the metal doors. The tied-up body of Brian Dempsy had been placed in the center of the room. A single shaft of light beamed onto the demon-possessed teen and the five-pointed star within a circle that had been painted around him.

"He can't hurt you," Sam assured an edgy Margo. "That demon trap is like flypaper. He can't get out."

"Just keep away from the circle," Dean added. "One toe in and you're a goner."

Brian's head lifted up a few inches. He smiled at the trio between bloodied gums. "What's up, bitches?"

"Nothing but your balls, dipstick."

The teen sniggered. "You _are_ funny, Dean Winchester. And here I thought the other demons just didn't like your sense of humor."

"Let's save the laughs for later. Who's your boss?" Dean demanded.

"Who's your daddy?"

"Tell me about the snake-oil salesman you were talking to."

"He's not my boss. Just a free-lancer with some good ideas."

"Give me a name."

"Bite me."

Dean picked up a bucket of holy water and dumped it onto the teen, who howled and strained against the ropes binding him. Margo instinctively backed up against the wall.

"Whoever he was, he's running around free with a giant wind-up toy and you're stuck in here with us," Dean warned the teen. "So he obviously doesn't give a rat's ass about you. Why don't you make this easier on yourself and give it up? Or else I'll dunk you in our holy juice Jacuzzi."

"Nononono," he rambled.

"Tell me!" Dean thundered.

"Teufel," the teen wheezed out. "H-his name is Captain Albert Teufel. He was in the lower ranks of the Thule and worked his way up."

"What's his part in this?"

"He was in charge of the prisoners of the labor camp in Belarus. Teufel's job was to make sure nobody escaped. Th-they didn't want anyone else finding out about their experiments in raising the dead."

"Belarus," Margo said quietly. "My grandmother was there during the war."

Sam and Dean glanced at her but the teen spoke first.

"Unwind your pants, boys. The girl's granny didn't know anything about the J.I. She was just a number in the prison book until she crawled her way out of the camp back into the real world—or at least what was left of it." He shook his head. "Man, nobody today ever parties like they did in World War II."

"What's Teufel want with Margo?" Sam asked.

The demon straightened himself up in the chair with a knowing look. He seemed to be less hysterical and more poised than before. "At first we thought Bass gave her the instructions but he didn't. Now I realize Teufel had a personal vendetta too. He's obsessed with making sure the right parts of history repeat themselves."

"And the wrong parts?" asked Dean.

"Go to hell."

"Did once. Didn't like it."

"Tell me another joke, Dean. How many angels does it take to screw a Winchester? If there's an Apocalypse and nobody's alive, does it matter? Two hunters walk into hell and one says to the other, 'Damn, it's hot in here!' Ha ha ha! You boys taking notes?"

"Talk or bleed."

"Boo hoo," remarked the teen. "Teufel's already pissed at the both of you for messing up his plans. But if you hand over Malka Chaya and apologize nicely then he may not use you two as doormats."

Margo suddenly gripped Sam's arm until her knuckles turned white. "Please don't turn me over," she begged. "Please!"

"Don't worry," Sam assured her firmly. "No one's giving Teufel what he wants."

The demon grinned ghoulishly at Margo. "Malka Chaya, Malka Chaya," he chanted. "Thrash you to pieces, slice open your spleen. Teufel's gonna burn you alive, Malka Chaya Green!"

Margo's face turned the color of a sour apple and she dashed from the room. She didn't make it to the bathroom and collapsed in the corridor where her stomach disgorged four tablespoons of whiskey and yesterday's breakfast.

Dean went after her. "Finish him off," he told Sam before leaving the room.

The younger Winchester opened a book and was about to perform the exorcism when the demon gave him a ghostly smile.

"Lucifer misses you," he said softly.

Seeing Sam's face freeze in horror, the smile widened between swollen gums. "I know. It's hard not having your other half around," he added in a sickly sweet voice.

"When Lucifer entered your body we all felt the earth tremble. It was bliss. A catharsis. The fallen angel found his rightful vessel, the boy with the demon blood. We were ready to bow and worship you both."

The demon sighed and squirmed in his seat. "Now you're back to being an overgrown puppy following his meatbag of a sibling around while Lucifer is banging against the bars of his cage downstairs."

"But you know what they say," cooed the demon. "'Absence makes the heart grow fonder'. Dear sweet Sam Winchester, have no fear. You'll be reunited with your other half soon enough."

Sam's jaw's clenched together. "Shut up," he hissed.

The demon cocked his head to one side. "Don't you miss him, Sam? I'm sure you do. I can see it in your eyes. All that righteous power coursing through your veins, fortifying your body and soul. it was his gift to you.

"Do you hear what I'm saying? Lucifer gave you a _birthright_!" the demon abruptly exploded. "And you'd throw it away because of some prick of a human brother and a filthy Jewess? NO! Lucifer will not be denied what is rightfully his!"

He thrashed against the ropes binding him while Sam chanted aloud in Latin. _"..et clementian taum supplex exposco ut adverus hunc.."_

A-A-A

Dean gave Margo a glass that thankfully, contained only water. She sipped it cautiously while he waited for Sam to join them.

"Better?"

"A little."

Dean folded his arms over his chest. "So you wanna help us out? Or bawl some more over Aaron?"

His abrupt mannerisms seemed to kick some sense back into Margo better than the whiskey. She shook her head and carefully set her glass down.

"If this Albert Teufel murdered Aaron then he has to be brought to justice," she said at last. "And if he has control of a Golem then it has to be destroyed before it can hurt anyone else."

Sam re-entered the main room and rolled his sleeves down. "Demon's gone. I guess we're back to Plan A."

"Which is?"

"Start at the beginning."

"Thank you, Captain Obvious."

Sam ignored his brother. "Do you know anything about the origins of the Golem?" he asked Margo.

She opened her mouth to say something but suddenly seemed to change her mind and closed it.

Dean looked annoyed. "Don't hold your breath, princess. Teufel and the demons must be having fun bouncing Frankenstein all over town while you wait to file your fingernails."

"That's not the problem."

"Then what is? Getting the knot out of your panty hose?" he demanded. The comment made Margo's face flush crimson.

"I may not know even a hairbreadth about the supernatural things that you deal with but I can tell you what I know about Kabbalah," she answered heatedly. "I'm talking about the real deal and _not_ the silly 'mysticism' people plunk down a hundred dollars to wrestle with for a few classes."

She expected a smart aleck comment but the firstborn Winchester gave her a hard stare to show he was fully attentive. "I'm all ears," he assured Margo in a no-nonsense tone.

His action appeared to have the right effect and she went on.

"We discussed it briefly in Hebrew school. My teachers said that only the most pious sages were allowed to divulge into it and even those who did were extremely careful about the wisdom they were handling. Kabbalah wasn't meant for the general public to use _or_ abuse. Anybody foolish or arrogant enough to think that they were 'worthy' to meddle with holy secrets was really just messing with fire. Imagine giving a kindergartener a nuclear bomb to play with."

Dean kept his lips sealed while Sam nodded his head in agreement. Their silence assured Margo that they had no desire to abuse the paranormal powers they were dealing with.

Sensing a bit of civility had been restored, Margo asked a crucial question. "Do you have any books on Jewish history lying around?"

Sam pushed two tall columns of stacked books towards her. "The Men of Letters were attentive in their research. Knock yourself out." Margo did so and carefully examined his findings.

She felt herself warming up a bit. Anybody who collected these books instead of burning them must have appreciated their value. Margo sat down and began thumbing through the collection eagerly.

"This is amazing," she murmured as she read off the titles. "_Maimonides Guide to the Perplexed_? The Gemara? _Ethics of Our Fathers_, the essays of Don Isaac Abarbanel, Rabbi Samson Raphael Hirsch's letters…" She lifted up one particular fat volume in blue leather. "I swear, this version was all burned in the Inquisition! How did the Men of Letters get a copy of it?"

"As much as you're having fun playing sexy librarian," Dean reminded her.

"Right, okay." Margo found two books and quickly leafed through them while talking with great animation.

"King David wrote how God saw his unformed body or '_golmi'_. That's essentially what a Golem is: a being without the free will or refined character of a human being. It can't talk or take action for itself because it was created to serve a master. You might as well call someone a Golem instead of a 'dummy' to insult him. You said Aaron's Golem actually talked the last time you saw him?"

"Yes."

"Spouting gibberish?"

"No. He was speaking in full sentences and joining our conversations."

"Then I'm guessing that's abnormal."

She placed a book on the table, leafed through it until she had found a specific page, and pushed it over to Sam and Dean. There was a photograph of the statue of a robbed gaunt man.

"This is Rabbi Judah Loew who lived in Prague during the 14th century," Margo said. "Also known as the Maharal, he was a renowned scholar who contributed to many Jewish laws and wrote about Biblical commentators."

"The Jews of Prague were confined to a ghetto that was locked at night. The citizens in town were superstitious and saw every excuse to use the Jews as scapegoats or accused them of using Gentile blood for Passover. Sometimes they rigged cases so that the slightest accusation could start up a riot. Like the time the body of a Christian child was found with his neck cut open-"

"—must've been a vampire," Dean cut in.

Two beats of silence passed before Margo went on.

"—and that was only the beginning of the dangers which is why the Golem was created. The Maharal was already known in the ghetto to be well-versed in the study of Kabbalah. It was even rumored that he cured a man who suffered from hallucinations of being chased by wild dogs—"

"Hellhounds?" blurted Sam.

This time Margo gave them a cool librarian stare. The Winchesters shut up.

"The Maharal created the Golem using the four elements of fire, water, earth, and air. Aside from being impervious to sword and fire, the Golem possessed spiritual awareness and could sense if a grave had been violated. That's how they were able to find out who really murdered the child or had stolen a corpse. The Golem's great speed and strength were used to rescue imprisoned Jews or bring a reliable witnesses to court when a bribed jury might accuse the wrong person."

She closed the book and looked up at the Winchesters.

"All we know is that when there was no more need for the Golem, the Maharal took his creation up to his study and did something that turned it back into clay. Nobody dared to go into that room again."

A-A-A

Dean waited for hours to pass until Sam and Margo had gone to bed to slip quietly out of the Bunker. If Sammy got wind of what he was doing then Dean wouldn't hear the end of it. But he couldn't sleep and something in the back of his mind kept nagging that he had been overlooking something.

Aaron had found what he was looking for to complete his legacy and now Dean had to find it as well.

He parked the Impala around the corner from Aaron's apartment. The police had left hours ago but there was still yellow tape up around the crime scene. Dean crouched underneath it and approached the burnt-out entrance cautiously. The EMF reader in his hand gave off no signs of supernatural activity.

He covered his mouth with one hand and coughed faintly. The room still smelled of smoke and everything had been badly singed. Dean made his way from the den to the kitchen to upstairs.

The second floor also smelled strongly of smoke but was in better condition. The explosion had been aimed at one part of the house. Dean found Aaron's bedroom, complete with a refurnished water bed and stereo system. A poster of Wonder Woman in battle armor leading a group of busty Amazon women hung on one of the walls. The other sported some elves attacking long-fanged goblins.

He couldn't resist a grin to himself. Dean shined his flashlight on the doorpost where he found another _mezuzah_, this one encased in olive wood. He managed to pry the nails out using a knife and carefully stuffed it into his pocket. Something told Dean that it could come in handy.

Dean moved the flashlight's beam to the books on the walls. "Where are you?" he muttered to himself, turning one after another. "Give me a sign, Aaron."

Then his eye rested upon a fat blue volume. What had Margo said about them being all burnt up?

His fingers grasped the volume and touched not soft leather but cold metal. Dean set down his flashlight and grasped it with both hands. It was in fact not a book but a metal box covered in blue paint. There was a padlock on the side.

"Thanks, Aaron." A simple paper clip was all that was needed to pry the lock open. Flipping the box lid up, Dean was rewarded with a faded green notebook. He leafed through it quickly and found pages of scrawled writing.

"Hello, Dean."

The flashlight flickered across the room before resting upon the beaming face of Crowley and the cautious one of Teufel.

"Found a good bedtime story, have we?" Crowley asked. "But where are my manners? I believe you've already met Captain Teufel." The Nazi glared at Dean, who reached for his knife.

"How long have you two been in bed together?" asked Dean.

"Long enough to tail you for hours," remarked Teufel.

Crowley motioned to the book. "I see you've saved us the trouble of looking for that. I don't suppose you'd know where the Jewess is too?"

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"I think you do," Crowley smirked. "Brown hair, brown eyes, mousy expression. Teufel here's got a score to settle."

"Sorry, neither." Dean stuffed the notebook inside of his jacket. "So why don't you girls go back to your slumber party before I rip your guts out?"

"Mmm, tempting but I'll take a rain check."

"The book," demanded Teufel. "Hand it over."

"Pass."

Teufel shrugged his shoulders. "Suit yourself." He raised a hand in the air and uttered something in German.

The lumbering figure of the Golem had burst out from between Crowley and Teufel and was charging towards him like a rhino. Dean barely had time to react before he was grabbed around the torso and the Golem proceeded to crack his ribcage. One thought came over him before lightning pierced his bones.

_Funny_, he thought to himself. _I don't remember seeing letters on his forehead last time._

The flashlight cluttered to the ground and snapped off.

A-A-A

"_Who is a strong man? He who conquers his desires."_ –Ethics of our Fathers, Chapter 4

A soft voice pulsed underneath Sam's skin. He was vaguely aware of the ghostly presence but remained wary.

"I need you, Sam," the voice pleaded desperately. "Please help me."

"Who are you?" he asked.

"I'm lonely," it whispered unhappily. "You're the only one who can set me free."

And suddenly he felt it shift within him. It was no longer an ethereal voice but that of himself, cool and enticing. A block of ice hardened in his stomach. Fear replaced the rapture and he willed the being to take true form.

"Show yourself!" he yelled.

There came a deep sigh. "As you wish." The being finally materialized into a perfect copy of Sam Winchester. He quivered to see his reflection standing before him, a placid smile on his face and one finger resting against his cheek.

"Lucifer," he said aloud. The fallen angel, now in the form of a doppelganger, nodded to Sam.

"Why won't you let me in, Sam?" Lucifer spread his arms apart as if to embrace Sam. "You're my soul mate. We need each other."

Sam just gritted his teeth and starred at his duplicate. "Because you're evil," he lashed out. "You invaded my body and were going to use it to destroy the world."

"You let me in," Lucifer countered politely. Sam's tongue became lead.

The angel smiled back at him serenely. "Don't hate yourself, Sam. I certainly don't. I said I wanted to make you happy and I still do. Remember all those times you felt frightened and unsure of yourself in the world? How worried you were that people would call you a monster because of your gifts?"

"There's no need to be an outcast anymore," Lucifer assured him. "Because I will always be there to take care of you."

"I don't need to be taken care of!" Sam insisted. "Especially by someone like you!"

"Then who?" the angel asked in a feathery tone. "Your brother? Dean is merely a man of flesh and blood. He can't watch you forever. It's time for you to spread your wings, Sam."

Sam watched his doppelganger's eyes widen with delight, every word carefully pronounced from his lips. " Just. Let. It. Go."

When he remained hesitant, Lucifer gave a small sigh. "Let me show you what I can do for you."

He watched his duplicate melt away until it had become a being of pure white light. Sam was suddenly engulfed in it, the ethereal force flowing through his veins with ease. He should have been repulsed or scared but instead found himself basking in pure ecstacy. It was freedom, physically and spiritually, and Sam could sense all of the power he had bottled up inside of him now channeling itself smoothly through his bloodstream.

He felt himself starting to yield, struggling less with the uncertainty that had clouded his judgment. He could sense Lucifer nodding approval as Sam's muscles relaxed under the guiding power of the light.

There was an unearthly touch on his skin and it caressed his face with breath that was lighter than air, assuring Sam that it meant no harm. The light knew where to touch him and how to touch him, so eager in wanting to please him. He was almost turned into water from the delicate sensation of feathery kisses raining down upon his body and tracing the lines of his soul. Everything was so remarkable, so extraordinary, that it left him at a loss for words or actions.

"That's it," the voice purred contently. "Let it wash over you like music. Taste it. Enjoy it, Sam. I won't ever hold you back."

He could have let this exhilaration continue for eternity but a knot had started to tighten in Sam's chest. Tears were brimming up fast in his eyes and he realized that he didn't feel happy anymore.

"What's wrong?" asked Lucifer. The beautiful sensation had halted ever-so-slightly.

Sam put a hand to his face and realized it was wet with tears. Something was wrong. He felt as if a chunk of himself was missing; a void that could not be filled even with the wondrous touch of an angel. He saw a snarky face, a wide grin, and was aware of the smell of motor oil and cheap beer. Annoying frustrating memories but real memories, honest and brave, were pushing through the cracks and he couldn't bear it anymore.

"Dean!" he yelled out, almost chocking on the word. "Dean!"

"No, Sam." Lucifer still tried to entice him. "Your brother doesn't understand you the way I do."

The young man refused to relinquish his pain. Mustering up courage from within himself, Sam forced himself to speak. "Dean doesn't have to understand me all the time. I know I've messed up in the past—more times than I can count." The words pierced like jagged glass in his throat. "But I know that he loves me."

"He doesn't."

"Yes he does!" Sam shouted aloud. Just saying the words aloud made him feel stronger.

The angel starred back at Sam like a mirrored reflection. "Then why does he constantly put you down? If someone loves you, they don't hurt you."

"My brother may not give me everything I want but he gives me what I need," Sam insisted. "He traded his life for mine. Nobody could do more for me than him."

This was what Lucifer would never understand. How human beings with their petty minds and fragile lives could be selfless, courageous, and forgive one another.

Sam watched a wrinkle appear in the angel's placid face. "If you don't cooperate Sam, then I'm afraid I'm going to have to get angry," Lucifer warned in a soft dangerous tone.

Flames burst forth and Sam watched as Dean, who had appeared out of nowhere, was running towards him. The ground opened up and a bony hand snatched Dean by the shoulder, dragging him into a circle of fire. Dean's eyes were locked on Sam with a look of utter terror.

"If Dean is going to be a distraction for you Sammy, then he'll have to be removed."

Sam tried to reach for his brother but found that his feet were frozen into place. Lucifer's high-pitched laughter was ringing in his ears. The fallen angel wagged his fingertips at Dean. "Have a nice trip downstairs," he called playfully.

"Sammy? Sammy!" Dean cried out. Sam got one last look at his brother before the hand yanked Dean down and into the ring of flames.

"NO!" Sam howled.

A-A-A

He bolted up out of the nightmare. Sam rubbed his forehead with a shaky hand. He realized that a thin film of sweat covered his forehead and his heart was pounding. He closed his eyes and rocked back and forth, trying to scrub the images out of his head.

He could still feel the aftershock of Lucifer in him. It was little more than a thin membrane of the memory, perhaps, but nevertheless it was coiled up there in the crevices of his mind and waiting to strike back.

_I need something to take my mind off it, _he thought. _A little night research can't hurt. _Sam got out of bed and made his way to the main room of the Bunker.

A small figure curled up in one of the chairs caught his attention. Margo wore a pair of drawstring pants and a gray hoodie with sleeves rolled up several times to her elbows. The oversized clothes made her look tinier than ever in comparison to Sam.

She was reading _Pride and Prejudice_ but looked up when she heard Sam's footsteps. Margo got out of the chair and walked over to him. "I hope it's okay that I helped myself," she said.

He was about to speak when Sam felt a hot pulse throb in the back of his head.

_Not now,_ he commanded the voice. _Get back in your cage._

Margo put the novel down. "Sam? Are you all right?"

Sam's eyes fluttered shut and his head rolled back and forth in a snake-like motion. When his eyes reopened there was a calculating hungry expression on his face. He looked down at Margo as if she was a fly in a web. His lips parted into a wide grin devoid of warmth or compassion.

_You poor naïve little girl. All trussed up like a lamb being led to the slaughter. _

Margo must have noticed the change because her skin prickled up with fear. Sam had taken a step towards her but she forced herself to remain in place.

"What's wrong?" Margo demanded, not taking her eyes off Sam.

The question echoed in Sam's ears and felt himself wrestling with the beast within. He shoved the dark thoughts into the depths of his mind, driving them into the abyss. Sam's entire body was seized with a shudder and he staggered backwards, rubbing his palms over his face.

After a painfully long moment, he exhaled carefully. The sinister expression on his face was gone. It had been replaced with a look of empathetic concern that Margo was getting used to.

"Sorry about that," he apologized quickly as he ran a hand through his hair. "I just couldn't sleep. Had a relapse from a bad dream."

"Are you sure?"

"Yeah, I'm good. What about you, Margo? Are you thirsty?"

"Not for alcohol," she warned him.

He rubbed the back of his head. "I think we've got coffee and a box of cocoa in the kitchen," Sam offered.

"Cocoa sounds good."

He came back in a few minutes with steaming mugs. Margo accepted one gratefully and took a sip.

"Thanks. I love chocolate." She drank some more. "I, I wanted to apologize for being so snippy to you and your brother about everything," Margo admitted. "This is all overwhelming for me."

"It's okay. Comes with the territory."

"But I shouldn't make things harder for you than they already are."

"Like I said, don't sweat it."

"All right." Margo looked longingly into her mug. "Did you know that Aaron treated us to hot fudge sundaes right after Yom Kippur?"

Sam shook his head. Margo smiled. "Not my first idea of a romantic date, especially after you've been fasting all day, but it hit the spot. That's when I knew he was an awesome guy."

"Yom Kippur," Sam repeated. "Is that what you call 'The Day of Atonement'?"

Margo nodded. "I'm impressed. You seem to know a lot about Jewish commandments."

"Learning new things interests me," Sam admitted. "It helps the family business."

They sipped their drinks in silence for a few minutes.

"Did you attend a Hebrew Day School like Aaron?" Sam asked Margo.

"Uh-huh," she nodded. "My folks didn't grow up in observant homes but they were traditional and wanted me to have a classic Jewish education. The school gave out more than enough homework but I still liked it."

"What did you like about school?"

Margo's fingers curled around the cup. "We were taught how to make the world a better place. Helping people in the community, praying for others, using the knowledge of the Torah to be responsible and smart. But the best parts were the stories from the Bible. Hearing about all these people who overcame their obstacles, performed miracles, and became heroes...maybe hoping someday I could be like them. Sounds kind of corny and sentimental but I liked it."

"No, it doesn't sound corny at all," Sam insisted. "I've tried running away from who I was in the past and it's never gotten me anywhere. You know who are and what you have to do. That's what makes you strong."

The sincerity in his voice made Margo feel warm and hopeful inside for the first time in days. "You're a very sweet person, Sam Winchester. I wish there were more people like you in the world."

Much to her surprise the compliment caused him to look pained.

"You shouldn't say that," he insisted. "If you knew what I was really like then you'd run out of here screaming."

"Why? What have you done that's so horrible?" she asked, leaning forward.

A thousand answers rose up in Sam's throat but quickly hardened into a single iron lump. What could he tell her? That demon blood coursed though his veins? That he had possessed psychic abilities that terrified and infuriated Dean? Or that he was the human being who had not only released the devil into this world but had willingly been a vessel for the angel who would would wreck havoc upon the earth?

He swallowed painfully and his Adam's apple bobbed up and down. Sam looked away. Margo fiddled with her cup in awkward silence, thinking of a way to change the subject.

"Why did that demon call you Malka Chaya?" he asked her.

"That's my Hebrew name. I'm named after Malka Grunberg, my grandmother's older sister. She died in the war."

"What happened to her?"

"Malka and Rachel, my grandmother, were sent to the labor camp in Belarus. Their parents had already been killed in Poland. Malka took it upon herself to look after Rachel and somehow kept her sister from getting sick and weak—otherwise she'd end up as an experiment to the Nazis. When the compound exploded, they escaped together. Rachel made it to the partisans in the woods. But the guards were shooting anyone who tried to flee and Malka..."

Margo drew in a sharp breath. "My grandmother finally told me the whole story before she passed away. She survived the war because her older sister risked her life. She said it was too painful to talk about it for years because of survivor's guilt."

_Crack_. A beam inside of Sam gave way, filling him with liquid heat.

"Malka Chaya," he whispered to himself. The name was soft around the edges and harsh in the center.

"_'Malka'_ means 'queen' in Hebrew. _Chaya_ means 'life'," Margo added quietly. "They named me to honor her memory. Do you think people can reincarnate, Sam? That their souls can come back to finish what they started?"

_Crack_. Another beam fell, much easier than the first one. He was quivering inside.

"Because I hope I wasn't Malka in a past life. I know that sounds selfish but I don't think I would've had the strength to make the same sacrifices as her. I know it's the brave thing to do, the _right_ thing to do, but I—I couldn't do it."

Sam suddenly got to his feet. His palms were sweaty and his eyes were stinging.

Margo approached Sam and reaching up, gently rested a hand on his shoulder. Her touch was calm and firm on skin. Their eyes met and Margo felt a deep ache inside. Something inside Sam was begging for help—for what she could only guess. Compassion? Justice? Sanctuary?

She carefully moved her hand up to his face and laid a palm against his cheek.

"It's okay," she said quietly. "I frighten myself too sometimes."

_Damn you. If I get close to anyone then they twist and burn. But I can't stay away. I can't stop caring. If I tried cutting my heart out of my chest then it would just grow back and hurt twice as much._

An arm wrapped around Margo's shoulders, engulfing her in hard muscles and brittle bones, then pulled her towards him. He was trying hard not to squeeze too tightly or else she'd break like a baby bird. But he held her close, feeling the warm small body pressed against his and praying she couldn't feel him shivering inside.

Neither of them said a word. Nothing had to be said.

Sam felt her face press against his chest for a moment. When Margo let go there was a tiny tearstain on his shirt.

"_Over the years I have learned to find it so much more widely, in communities that care, in the kindness of strangers, in people who touch our lives, perhaps only monetarily, doing the deed or saying the word that carries us to safety across the abyss of loneliness or self-doubt." _–Rabbi Jonathan Sacks

A-A-A

Additional notes:

Kaddish is indeed a prayer said for 12 months after a person has departed. A _mezuzah_ is a piece of parchment with verses from Deuteronomy that people place on the doorposts of their homes.

Dean and Margo's exchange on "holy water" is some liberty I took with the custom to pour water over the hands after waking up in the morning and before eating bread.

The Maharal, Rabbi Judah Loew, was a real scholar in Jewish history as were Don Isaac Abarbanel and Rabbi Samson Hirsch, though they lived in different periods of time and in different countries. The Gemara is a commenatary to the Talmud. _Maimonides Guide to the Perplexed_ and _Ethics of Our Fathers_ (also known as Perki Avot) are still studied today.


	3. Chapter 3

"_To see a world in a grain of sand_

_And heaven in a wild flower_

_Hold infinity in the palm of your hand_

_And eternity in an hour."_

-William Blake

A-A-A

John and Mary Winchester. Good strong sensible names for good strong sensible parents who raise good strong sensible sons.

That's what Margo managed to glean from what Sam told her as the time passed. She was not at all surprised and in fact, quite impressed to hear that he had won a scholarship to Stanford University. The real astonishment was learning how he had left that world behind to follow his brother across the country in that old black car.

John and Mary Winchester.

They sounded like nice folks. Now their children roamed the earth like samurai or knights in search of dragons to slay. Some days they got to be heroes. Other days the monsters feasted upon their victims and the Winchester boys were lucky to escape with their skins intact.

Having discovered Dean's sudden disappearance, Sam had quickly changed into street clothes and given Margo strict instructions to stay inside the Bunker until he got back. His lack of presence was noted—the Bunker felt more like locked-up conservatory than a safe haven without someone to talk to—but Margo had no intention of wandering off and falling into demon or Nazi hands.

She had spent the next two hours unearthing more books of the Men of Letters until her head nodded off between pages of a heated debate. The sounds of two exasperated Winchesters caused Margo to wake up. She had accidentally drooled on the pages but quickly wiped her mouth with the back of her sleeve.

Dean was leaning on Sam and his feet were dragging along the floor. Something was dangling from his right hand but had slipped out of them and fallen by the wayside. He gave Margo a weak smile. "Hey, Batgirl. Whatcha got for us?"

Sam plunked his brother onto the sofa and motioned to a room in the corridor. "Medical supplies, third drawer," he ordered Margo. "Hurry!"

She dashed off and came back with arms full of pills, bandages, and a bottle of cleaning alcohol. Margo nearly dropped everything when she saw Sam help Dean get his brother's shirt off. Dean looked as if he had lost ten rounds against a heavyweight boxer. An ugly patchwork of purple and yellow bruises ran around his ribcage and stomach.

"What happened?!" Sam exploded.

"Eh, Teufel's sniffing at Crowley's crotch—or the other way around."

"Crowley's in this now?!" Sam was vivid. He pointed to a small refrigerator where Margo found the beer. Dean accepted a bottle and began jugging down beer like a camel drinking water.

"This is bad, Dean. Very bad. You had no right to go wandering off like that. What would we do if something happened to you?"

"Save it for later, Sammy. Now at least we know what we're dealing with." Dean's head rolled in a semi-circle. "Ouch."

"Where does it hurt?"

"Everywhere. When I breathe."

Sam cracked open a cold compress and pressed it against his brother's ribs. Dean winced. "What I wouldn't do for a couple of lap dancers right now."

"Who's Crowley?" Margo asked.

"The King of Hell."

"No, seriously. Who is he?" she insisted.

Silence.

"Oh."

"You thought demons just ran amuck eating eat other's guts?" Dean smirked. "Well, not all of the time. This guy's found a way to get blood from a stone. Crowley sucks people dry by making deals with them. He gives them ten years of happily ever after and then he gets their soul."

Sam kept the compress on Dean's skin. "What was Crowley doing anyway?"

"Besides counting Teufel's nosehairs, I think he's added some demon mojo to the Golem. 'Cuz this time its eyes were getting kind of black and it was doing whatever they said to do."

"Demonic power inside a Golem?" Margo shook her head. "That's terrible."

"Oh, and here's something new." Dean paused to swallow some more beer. "It had some kind of writing on its head. But I couldn't make heads or tails of it." He wiggled his fingers over his forehead.

Margo picked up a sheet of paper containing Hebrew letters and placed it under Dean's nose. "Do any of these letters look familiar to you?"

"Lessee…" He squinted at the paper. Sam had made his brother swallow two painkillers which made Dean's motions less fluid. He jabbed at one, two, three random letters. "I think it was those."

"_Tet_, _Aleph_, _Mem_," Margo said aloud.

"Does it mean anything to you?"

She shook her head. Sam heaved a sigh and his shoulders sagged. "Then we're back to square one?"

"Nope!"

Dean waved a hand in the direction of the main door. Sam walked over and picked up what Dean had dropped: a squished-up notebook with a light green cover. He thumbed through pages of scribbles.

"Aaron's journal. Kept it hidden," Dean muttered. "I told Crowley he'd have to rip it from my cold stone fingers before he got his hands on it."

"But how _did_ you get away?" Margo asked.

Dean wrestled something from his pocket and tossed it at Margo. She unrolled the tiny scroll and found that the parchment was torn and several letters had been burnt out.

"_Me-zu-zah,_ you call it, right? Holy writing you nail on the door. I figured the mojo on that paper would have to counter the mojo on the Golem's forehead. Slapped it onto his skin and it stopped him in his tracks long enough for me to get away."

"Dean, that's amazing. But how did you know it would work?"

"I didn't." He pointed to the coffee table. "Whiskey. Now."

Margo looked like she didn't approve. "C'mon, princess," Dean pleaded. "Heroes need their power juice." Reluctantly, she poured him a glass and watched Dean empty the contents down his throat.

"I still wish we knew what those letters on the Golem's forehead meant," Margo insisted. "Hebrew words have powerful interpretations. If a single letter is removed or inserted, it can change the entire value of the word."

"Maybe Aaron's journal can help," Sam suggested. He placed it carefully on the table and opened it up. "It looks like he wasn't just writing in English. Is that Hebrew?"

Margo bent over the journal. "Yes. And Yiddish too."

"Can you read it?"

"I can try."

"That's the spirit," Dean said, waving his empty glass in the air. His words were getting slurred together. "Tell Crowley that no virgins die on _my_ watch."

Margo's mouth pursed up. "Could you please not refer to me as that?"

"Well, that's what you are, isn't it?"

"That's besides the point. How'd you like it if I went around calling you a…a rake?" she spluttered.

"I've been called a tool before."

"I mean a man of ill repute."

"Sticks and stones, princess. I'm off to get some sleep." He struggled to get off the sofa and would've fallen flat on his face if Sam hadn't caught his brother.

"You nerds have fun!" he yelled over his shoulder as he let Sam maneuver him to his bedroom. No sooner did Dean's head hit the pillow then he began to snore.

With a shake of his head, Sam turned off the light and closed the door. Back in the main room, Margo gave him a bewildered look.

"Is he always like this?"

"No. Sometimes he actually thinks he's funny." Sam ran his hands through his hair. "I'll make some coffee. We've got work to do."

A-A-A

_Excerpts from the journal of Aaron Bass_

_September 15th:_ Frankenstein won't stop clomping around the house and it's giving me a headache. Only stopped when I yelled at him to knock it off or I'd use him for compost heap. He started blathering to me about _mitzvoth_. The joys of being a member of the Judah Initiative.

The only shot I have at making this thing work is by asking J, who hasn't answered my voice mail yet. I pray J has the answers ASAP.

Spent two hours killing my eyes at the research library looking in the Mishna for answers. Figured all those laws the ancient rabbis wrote down would have something about how to handle the big guy, right? Wrong. All I got were debates on how to clean your house for Passover. I'm months ahead of that holiday and getting nowhere with this. FML. FML.

_September 16th:_ My cell phone rang. It was J. Hurrah. We talked on the phone for half an hour while I told J what Grandpa Bass gave me and that I needed instructions because I "lost" the first book. No time for guilt trip.

"You were studying Mishna yesterday. That's good," said J.

"What's that got to do with the price of tea in China?" I asked.

"Learning Torah is a _mitzvah_. You've fulfilled a commandment." J sounded pleased. I wasn't.

"Just tell me how to keep the Golem under control."

"You don't know?"

"Why do you think I'm calling you?!" I yelled through the phone.

"Keep studying. Call me in three days." Then J hung up. FML

_September 17th:_ I went back to the Mishna. Then I realized I hadn't learned it in 13 years and can still translate Hebrew and Aramaic. It's weird how all of that information is coming back to me now, like it was programmed into my brain and I can pull it out whenever I please. Sounds like something out of an Asimov novel.

Something creepy happened today. I was feed up with the clumping and banging so I told Frankenstein to STAND STILL and he did. Just like that. No rebuff, no remarks.

It stopped being creepy after five minutes so I finished the Mishna and told him to stay that way while I went to the gym. An hour later I came home and he was still like that.

I take it back. I live inside the Twilight Zone.

_September 19th:_ Called J back and told them what happened. J sounded pleased. "Learn with other people. It'll make you stronger and smarter."

It took me three online maps and nearly half an hour by bus but I got to the little synagogue on the other side of town for afternoon services. Most of them are old geysers, some not yet ready for a nursing home but a few are university professors. You'd think I was a Nobel prize winner or something because they kept shaking my hand and telling me how glad they were to have me join the _minyan_.

"Ten men to make a _minyan_." That part I remember from school and sometimes it's hard to get ten guys together at the right time. Rabbi Allen's a quirky guy who teaches at Penn U and is writing an article on the migration of Canadian geese. I told him I was looking for a study partner and he said he'd gladly learn with me twice a week.

"Twice a week? For how long?" I blurted out.

"As long as you like!" he laughed.

So we sat down and discussed the Mishna together. Maybe my I.Q. had gone up a few points but I can't bench press any more at the gym.

_September 27th:_ I've been to the synagogue for more than a week now and haven't missed services. By now it's starting to feel like a habit.

Something weird has happened. I came home and asked Frankenstein how his day was. He just grunted. I got worried and called J.

"A Golem isn't supposed to talk, remember? He's losing speech because you're gaining something."

"You make it sound like a good thing," I told J. "He _has_ to tell me what to do."

"Why? Don't you know what to do?"

"No I don't!" I shouted. I hung up on J.

Realized I was being followed at the gym by a smart aleck in street clothes. He registered at the desk and I looked up his name in Grandpa's ledger. Yup, Frederick Heinrich of the SS is on my tails.

Screw this, J. We're going Nazi-hunting.

_September 28th:_ I'm bushed. Told my walking Chia Pet we're going after Heinrich and he just nodded. We had to wait until after midnight because that's when the apartment complex where he's hiding shuts the main lights down. I was afraid the Golem would make too much noise but I told him to be quiet…and you'd think we were professional burglars by how quietly we got inside.

Picked the lock on the door and there inside is Heinrich, drinking beer and reading _Mein Kampf_. It's disgusting how some people's habits never change. Well, he saw us and looked scared, then angry. I saw him reach for a weapon but almost forgot I have to _tell_ Chia Pet what to do. So I did. I told him to wring that son of a bitch's neck and he did.

We stuffed the body into my car, drove to the dumping grounds an hour away, and Chia Pet did most of the work digging a grave and dumping the body inside. I doused him with gasoline and a book of matches just like the Winchesters said. Wonder if they toast marshmallows in the middle of the night. I certainly don't.

Drove home and told Chia Pet to lie down for some shut eye. He stretched himself out on the floor and did just that. I crashed and woke up late in the afternoon. Wanted to order a pizza and stay in but somehow, even after bringing down Heinrich, I had enough juice to make it to services. Something told me I should send a message upstairs and tell Grandpa that I did him right.

I stood there next to Rabbi Allen, holding a prayer book, chanting along as if I was the nicest Jewish boy in town while he had no idea I was burying Nazis in the middle of the night.

I started laughing in the middle of services.

_October 1st:_ I hate librarians. I hate hissy fussy people who make you shut up and tell you not to bring even a cracker crumb into the library and if you touch those reference books without kid gloves then they'll arrest you.

But I'm a member of the Judah Initiative so a librarian isn't going to get the best of me, right? Wrong. Guy gets all snooty and tells me that the specific book that Rabbi Allen was so keen on finding for our study session is _not_ available even though their online catalog says it _is_!

Then someone at the front desk suddenly pops up and says, "I know. It's a very old edition and we're just about to move it into storage. But you can make copies of some pages and there's a new version we're ordering. Would you like me to place it on hold?"

She's got big brown eyes and hair that defies gravity. She's too nice to be a librarian. Maybe librarians have magic pixies who do the _real_ work around here.

P.S. Her name is Malka Chaya but everyone calls her Margo.

_October 10th: _We've been studying the weekly Torah portion, Rabbi Allen and I, but I got distracted by telling him about Margo's eleven freckles, her love affair with chocolate (her words, not mine), and that she doesn't grow her nails out because she doesn't want to scratch the kids at story hour. He said I should go back to the library and I just said we should get back to learning Torah.

Just when things are looking up, I call J with a progress report. "Kosher food," I'm instructed. "No shellfish, shrimp, or pork."

I can do without slimy blobs in crusty shells but _not_ the Happy Hog Double Bacon Wrap.

"No! After everything I've been through, I deserve to eat what I want!" I begged.

"You are what you eat, Aaron."

"Lots of people eat pork and they're not schmucks."

"Lots of people are not in possession of Golems. You have to up your game." J paused and added, "I know this is hard for you…"

"You THINK SO?!"

"Listen. You are treading on a very thin wire and need every bit of instruction that you can get. Food isn't just fuel for your body. It's for your soul too. You make what you eat a valuable priority and that's another _mitzvah_ for you to check off."

"Screw this, I'm ordering a pepperoni pizza."

_Later that night:_ The pizza was evil. I spent hours hanging over the toilet while Frankenstein watched over me.

"Kosher," was all he said.

"I know, I know."

He didn't say anything for the rest of the day. God is laughing at me right now.

_October 13th: _I missed morning services and everyone was worried about me. Virus? Flu? Of course there was a doctor in the house to check my temperature and no, I didn't have fever. You'd think I was back in grade school! Dr. Silver recommended pomegranate juice and vitamins.

Bumped into Margo at the supermarket while stocking up on chicken and lox. I tried to make small talk but realize I can't tell her about Frankenstein and the zombies so I asked if she knows about vintage serial movies.

"Oh yeah! We're screening a classic Dick Tracy one at the library this coming Tuesday!" she gushes. "Say, some of us are having Friday night dinner together. Why don't you join us?"

I _really_ just want to stay home and test my new stereo. But I guess I'd do anything for a homemade meal so I said I'd go.

_October 16th: _Meant to test the stereo but was busy all day. I swear I lost track of the time! We got into so many crazy discussions over dinner on Friday night and I remember eating something that tasted like takeout but not as greasy and with a lot more beef. One of the kids brought a few bottles of beer and we toasted and sang songs.

Services ended later today because it was Saturday and nobody was rushing off to work. Rabbi Allen invited me to his house in the afternoon were I was given several bowls of hot stew (I'm beginning to see the perks J wasn't tell me about) by his rowdy children and then we found out his grandparents came from a town not far from where Grandpa grew up. I had the word "Initiative" on the tip of my tongue but somehow managed to keep it shut. Because the last thing Rabbi Allen, Margo, and J need are troublemakers on their heels.

"Your grandfather must be so proud of you," Rabbi Allen said. I said nothing. It wasn't until I got home and realized I had left my cell phone off that, for the first time since my bar mitzvah, I had kept a full day of Shabbat.

Of all the supernatural things I have experienced, that was the most extraordinary so far. I wonder what the Winchesters would think of that….

_October 19th: _Busy, busy, busy!

Right after services this week, Rabbi Allen asked me if I'd help package up clothing and toys for the homeless shelter. You can't say "no" to either so I charged up my ipod and spent three hours sorting socks from sock puppets while listening to Black Sabbath. Afterwards we held our weekly learning session in the booth of a kosher pizza store. Rabbi Allen says I'm getting good at interpreting the commentaries.

Next mission this week, I checked the red ledger against online information about German-sounding names of people who were constantly moving around for years. I came up with Hans Backer and Hugo Eberstark. I think Eberstark means "strong as a boar" but he wasn't strong enough for my Golem who snapped his spine in two. Checkmate.

I was actually looking forward to another Sabbath dinner and brought my famous guacamole. Margo said she liked my feedback over our table discussions and would I like to give a lecture to the college kids sometime soon?

I almost forgot to call J with a glowing progress report. "On a scale of one to ten, how am I doing?"

"I'm not judging you, Aaron. You're not in any competition." J gets more and more cryptic every time we chat. J goes on. "Torah study, keeping kosher, and Sabbath observance."

"I got a nice Jewish girl too."

"I'd say 'Mazel Tov' but I worry that she might find out what you are doing."

"No sweat."

Margo said her grandma was in the Belarus labor camp but she knows nothing about the Initiative. Talk about coincidences but they shipped a lot of people up there for their psychotic reasons. I'm guessing at least four or five thousand lives were spared because of the J.I.'s actions which are nothing to sneeze about.

Last item to check off my list was moving to a better apartment and yes, it did help to have seven feet of moving clay help my stuff. The only catch was of course, doing it late at night after everyone went to bed. He doesn't talk anymore. I tell him what to do and he just nods and does it. Instead of feeling edgy all the time, I feel this is an ongoing responsibility that keeps me on my toes. A blessing and a burden in one. Is this what J was talking about?

I must be a superhero. By day, mild-mannered Aaron Bass joins the daily members and helps in the community. By night, he is Iron Staff, the Jewish Avenger who drives fear into the hearts of-

That name sucks. I need to work on this.

_October 24th: _After Saturday services and some great Cognac, I plunked down with what Rabbi Allen had piled upon me and found a recent footnote in some obscure text. Turns out a few members of the Men of Letters were trying to get behind the Iron Curtain in the 60's and wound up in Prague. They didn't find anything about the original Golem. Do the Winchesters know about this?

J knows nothing about it and didn't even sound that interested when I called on Sunday.

"I thought you'd be interested since it's your legacy," I insisted. "How many people can claim that the Maharal was their ancestor?"

"That's of little importance. You're the one with the Golem on your hands."

"But you helped!" I insisted.

"You're the one who took charge."

I can't make heads or tails of J sometimes.

A-A-A

"Wait, that's it?!"

A somewhat refreshed if not slightly less bruised Dean Winchester spread his hands apart. They had poured over the journal from start to finish for the umpteenth time and hadn't found what they were looking for.

"Where's the rest of the stuff? The 'do it yourself' to turn the Golem off?"

"There's nothing in the journal about that."

"What about the instructions? Damnit, they've got to be somewhere!" Dean slammed a hand on the table. "OW!"

"Aaron didn't write down anything about a manual. I think it's because J didn't give him one," Margo shrugged. Dean continued to look frustrated.

"Maybe he did," Sam insisted. He tapped a finger against the notebook. "Whoever this 'J' person is, he gave Aaron specific duties. Go to morning prayers, observe the commandments, help the community, and even give up bacon?

"Way too righteous for me," Dean said. "Are you saying Aaron went all spiritual-fest on himself and that's how he got Frankenstein to behave?"

"The more in control he was of himself, the more control he had over the Golem. That's why it stopped talking altogether and went back to its original role of serving the master," Margo murmured aloud. "He didn't need a manual after all."

"But _we_ do," Dean insisted. He threw up his hands in exasperation. "So that's it? No other members of the Judah Initiative who can help us?"

"Aaron said he was the last one," Sam reminded him.

Dean leaned back in his chair and exhaled deeply. He was about to say "dead end" when he realized that his little brother still had a furrowed brow from thinking hard.

"Got a Plan B in that noggin of yours, Sammy?"

"Aaron may have been the final descendant from the Judah Initiative," Sam said slowly. "But according to his journal, this 'J' person can trace his origins back to the Maharal." He flipped open his laptop and his fingers flew across the keyboard at lightning speed.

"You're suggesting we go looking for 'J' for advice?"

"Unless you've got a better idea."

Dean glanced at Margo for a response. "It sounds like it might work. But after everything I've learned lately, J may not want to be found so easily," she suggested.

"You'd be surprised," Sam said. He grinned and looked up from the screen. "It turns out that several descendants of the Maharal immigrated right before World War I. Some ended up in Manchester, others in Paris or Toronto. And someone lives right smack in the middle of Maryland."

He pushed the computer over to Margo and Dean. The older Winchester groaned softly.

"Dr. Miri Jacobson," Sam announced.

"I've heard of her. Isn't she the head surgeon for the Scott Institute of Health?" asked Margo.

"Yes. And she's being honored in downtown Baltimore in four days with a Lifetime Achievement Award at an exclusive reception."

"Sammy, are you sure it's her?"

"Dr. Jacobson's mother's maiden is Loew. It _has_ to be her."

"Great. Road trip to Baltimore to ask Doc what's up." Dean sighed. "I'll go load up the Impala."

A-A-A

The drive to Baltimore was long and uneventful, save for Dean's newest game unofficially dubbed "Screw You" where he had Margo guessing which supernatural beings the Winchesters had actually seen (leprechauns, shapshifters, tricksters, ancient gods) and which they had yet to check off their lists (Loch Ness Monster, Rasputin, trolls).

Margo got only out of every five accurately.

Less amusing and far more traumatic was Margo's cool remark about the Impala. To Margo, a car was a vehicle with four wheels and an engine. It was designed to take you somewhere. That was its function, pure and simple. She accidentally let it slip that she could not see why someone could possess such passion for automobiles any more than express undying love for vacuum cleaners or food processors. The deathly silence from Sam and pained look in Dean's eyes warranted an apology and Margo admitted her error profusely.

The truce was settled when she offered to cover the cost of Dean's cheeseburger and shamrock shake. He accepted her apology but it took 85 miles of asphalt to get the sting out of the remark. Since then, she kept her lips sealed on the matter. Margo poured several packets of creamer into a cup of bad coffee, munched on a bagel, and watched the sky fade from orange to blue to black.

Something shifted in the middle of a drizzly night when Dean had Margo sit up front so that Sam could stretch his legs in the backseat. Not that Sam could be folded up any easier in the car but nevertheless, the arrangement was made under Dean's instructions. Sam didn't protest and neither did Margo.

Margo listened to the _splitter splatter_ of raindrops on the windows and _breek breek_ of windshield wipers. Condensation appeared on the windows but inside the heater kept them toasty. For a brief moment in time the outside threats didn't seem to exist. The Impala was a box of protection, one of a purring engine and rock music and the smell of coffee. She started to feel drowsy.

"Sammy sleeping back there?" Dean asked.

Margo leaned back to check and nodded.

"Good."

He reached for the volume and turned off the music.

Five words and a simple gesture updated her opinion of Dean Winchester as a walking mass of contradictions and annoying habits. This loudmouthed arrogant pleasure-chasing hunter had one thing that kept him anchored to the earth and that was the fact he loved his brother more than life itself.

_The fate of the world could be in worse hands_, she concluded before dozing off.

A-A-A

_Outside Baltimore:_

"What's that?" Margo gestured to all of him. Dean had come out of a convenience store bathroom and was wearing his FBI suit.

"This? I call it a monkey suit."

"I call it a _shmata_. You wouldn't use it to wipe a floor, let alone go to a gala in it." She shook her head. "No offense but you can't wear that to meet Dr. Jacobson."

Truth be told, their cover suits were starting to fade and fray at the cuffs. But the comment was not appreciated by Dean. "This is the best we've got, Margo. If you don't like it then just suck it up."

"Can't you just…"

"-we're not in the hunting business for the money, kiddo. Unless you've got one of daddy's platinum credit cards in your back pocket we're not dancing our way over to Brooks Brothers."

Margo rummaged around in her wallet for a moment. She took out a card and handed it to Dean. Sam, who had just joined them, glanced over his brother's shoulder.

"Feinberg Menswear Company?" he read aloud.

"Make sure you mention the discount," she added.

A-A-A

_Feinberg Menswear Store, Northeast division_

"Velcome! Velcome!" announced Mr. Feinberg, striding to the front of his store to meet the Winchesters. He moved pretty spritely for a guy who looked at least 200 years old. The small white-haired man walked up to Dean and pumped his hand. Various creases and wrinkles in his face rose and fell with every facial gesture.

"Tenk you for coming to Feinberg's vere de customer is always satisfied. Vat can I do for you nice young gentlemen?" he inquired in a thick accent. Before Dean could open his mouth, Feinberg seized him by the lapels.

"Ugh, I see de problem. Diss is no good." He batted the back of his hand against Dean's shoulder. "Take off dat _shmata_ and let's get you fitted."

"What's the hell's a _shmata_?" he muttered under his breath to Sam. His brother just gave him a grin-and-bear-it look and proceeded to remove his jacket as well. The brothers were bustled to the back of the store and ushered into fitting rooms behind dark green curtains.

"Yossi!" Feinberg hollered.

For a moment Sam thought he was saying "Bossy" until a slim bearded man in his 30's appeared with a tape measure around his neck. Like some of the Orthodox Jews they had seen around the neighborhood, he wore a white button-down shirt and black slacks. A large black velvet skullcap sat on top of his head and rectangular glasses were perched upon his nose.

"Just hold your arms out," he instructed Sam. The Winchester did as he was told while Mr. Feinberg began measuring Dean. Yossi was nearly a foot shorter than his brother and had procured a step stool in order to measure Sam properly.

Feinberg stopped measuring Dean long enough to look Sam up and down. "Yossi, you tink you can find a suit for de Empire State Building?"

"No problem. I fitted the Sears Tower last week," his assistant responded without batting an eye.

Seeing Sam's concern, he grinned and adjusted his glasses. "That customer was a six-foot-tall boy in the 8th grade with a bad case of the bar mitzvah jitters. We did a good suit for him. Remember, Mr. Feinberg?"

"I remember. Pearl gray seersucker. Very nice. Valked out looking like a million bucks," Feinberg nodded in approval. "You boys going to a party?"

"The award ceremony for Dr. Jacobson," Sam said. "But we—"

"Aha! Miri Jacobson, a Voman of Valor!" Feinberg beamed. "Vat a great lady!"

"But it can't be too…" Sam protested.

"Don't vory so much, big shot!" Feinberg interrupted. "I know vat I am doing."

Over the next 15 minutes, shirts, suits, and ties were handed to the Winchesters. Sam tossed aside his old shirt with relief; he hadn't been able to get all of the coffee stains out. Yossi had procured new shirts in white, blue, and teal with starched collars and Sam gladly tried on the fresh crisp garments.

The only time Yossi raised his eyebrows was when he saw the anti-possession tattoo on Sam's chest. "Living in the fast lane, huh?" he asked.

Trying to explain the charm wasn't on Sam's list of top priorities at the time so he just nodded. Yossi had already moved on to procuring ties.

"The teens are going wild for plaid now. But I think you want something more subdued, right?" He produced two ties, one with maroon and silver stripes and another with a gray checkered background. Both were accepted gratefully.

"Oy vey! Vat happened to your stomach?" Mr. Feinberg was hollering from the next booth. "You look like you got smashed by a truck!"

"Well, this one girl liked to get kind of frisky," Dean was explaining. "Betty the Boa Constrictor squeezed me one too many times."

Sam's face twisted up with embarrassment. Yossi coughed politely and stepped back into the front of the store. Sam followed him in a moment to examine the light gray suit in the three-way mirror.

"How's that working out in the shoulders for you? Feels snug at all?" Yossi asked him.

"No, it's fine."

"The sleeves are too long. I can fix those for next week."

"I'll roll them up. We're in a bit of a hurry," Sam insisted.

Yossi shrugged. "Suit yourself."

Dean strutted out and began admiring himself in the mirror. Feinberg had procured for him a similar suit in navy pinstripes, tailored well with narrow lapels with a breast pocket for a handkerchief.

Yossi nodded in approval. "Looks good. Channeling your inner Elliot Ness." Dean beamed at Sam.

"Now about de total cost," Feinberg said. He mentioned a price over their heads, causing Sam to shake his head at Dean.

"What about the discount?" Dean asked.

"Discount? I am sorry." Feinberg shook his head. "Discount vas for last month's fall sale."

Dean shrugged and began to unbutton his jacket. "Sorry to hear that, Mr. Feinberg. We'll just go to Suits Warehouse at the mall. C'mon, Sammy."

"De mall!?" Feinberg suddenly exploded. "Vat do doze big shots know about service? Quality? Nothing! Feh!" he threw up his hands in disgust. "You vant to drive me out of business for good?"

"No, not at all," Sam insisted, trying to smooth things over. In his most polite tone he added, "We were recommended by a friend but were sure we'd be able to—"

"Recommendation? Vell, why didn't you say so?" Feinberg had switched to beaming again. "Okay, for you I keep discount for de ceremony."

Sam gave him an appreciative smile. "Thank you, Mr. Feinberg."

"Morris, just Morris," Feinberg insisted. "You big shots gonna stick around town?"

"No, we're just here for a few days."

Feinberg shrugged. "Ah vell, doesn't matter. My suits dey gonna last you de rest of de year. He lightly punched Sam in the arm. "Vat your mama fed you to make you grow so big?"

"Oh, he's always been big. I'm telling you my little brother is growing like a weed," Dean chuckled.

"Little brother, eh? You vant cufflinks too?" Morris Feinberg opened up a box of silver-and-onyx squares. Sam tried to decline courteously but to no avail. "Take 'em anyvey," Feinberg insisted, adding them to the pile of shirts. "We getting a new shipment next month."

Adjusting his glasses for a moment, Yossi carefully balance out the discount which came to a substantial but not impossible amount. Dean produced a wad of bills from his wallet and placed them on the counter. Four new shirts were packed into cardboard boxes while the Winchesters wore their new suits out of the store.

"How about dem guys?" Morris Feinberg asked, scratching his head in disbelief. "Yossi, I gotta phone up our store in Chicago. You kin mind de front for a while?"

"No problem, Morris."

As soon as Mr. Feinberg had disappeared into the back room, Yossi removed his cell phone from his pocket. He quickly pressed a button revealing a photograph that he had snapped of Sam's tattoo.

Yossi hit the SEND button before sliding the phone back into his pocket.

A-A-A

Margo met the Winchesters outside the local outlet strip. She had spent most of the hour rummaging through a thrift store and sampling cosmetics at a makeup counter with adequate results.

Now Margo was in a robin's egg blue dress with white pumps and had a matching purse tucked under one arm. A strand of faux pearls ran around her neck. There was a touch of lavendar eyeshadow in the corners of her eyes and her lips were bright and glossy.

"Okay?" she asked cautiously.

Dean nodded in approval.

"How are we going to get inside?"

"Easy peasy." Dean handed her a laminated card and gave his brother one too.

"Journalists?" Margo sounded uncertain.

"Trust me, princess. We've been doing this for years. It's all about eye contact and holding your ground. And in these new monkey suits, we'll be irresistible."

Sam gave Margo a reassuring look. She took a deep breath and tucked the card into her purse.

Getting into the reception hall was going to be easy. Getting past security would be harder. Sam had found a local paper on a bench and discovered that two synagogues, a church, and a recreation center had been sabotaged in the last few days. Windows had been smashed, religious objects destroyed, and the security cameras had been tampered with. Police were still debating if the actions were the result of chain gangs or a single group that was working its way from state to state.

"Crowley and Teufel?" asked Dean.

"Who else?" Sam tucked the paper under his arm. "Security will be tightened up, I'm sure of it."

"Do you think the Thule will just run in and snatch Dr. Jacobson off the stage?" asked Margo uneasily.

"Nah, they wouldn't dare stick their demon dicks out in broad daylight. Adding bouncers is just a waste of time but it'll make the attendees feel safe," Dean assured her.

"He's right," Sam said. "Dr. Jacobson may not be a target right now but we shouldn't let her out of our sight."

The three of them entered the convention center that was flooded with cool bright afternoon sunlight. Crimson and gold banners hung from the rafters announcing the reception while guests mingled around a bubbling fountain in the middle of the main hall. Sam took a moment to collect a few pamphlets off a table and stuff them into his jacket.

As they approached the reservation desk, Dean leaned towards Margo and whispered into her ear. "Just keep quiet and let us do the talking." She nodded in compliance.

Dean walked up to the woman taking reservations and flashed his card in front of her eyes. "Hello, I'm Roger Stevenson with the National Journal. Party of three?"

She glanced down at her laptop. "I don't see your reservation here," she said.

"Well you see, our head of staff was supposed to attend in person but he had a family emergency to take care of. He sent his best team to represent the Journal." Dean gave her his most winsome smile. "We're all tremendous supporters of Dr. Jacobson's work. I can't begin to tell you what a great honor it is to be in her presence."

Sam resisted the urge to roll his eyes as his brother piled on the charm.

"Beth? Could you come here a minute?" A second woman in a cocktail dress had approached the table. She was holding a clipboard and kept looking from her notes to the laptop.

The trio held their breath for a minute. Then Beth looked at them and smiled. "Not to worry. Four members of the press were supposed to be here but their flight was delayed. You can take their seats."

They were screened by several police officers and for once Dean knew he had done the right thing by leaving their guns in the Impala. The flask of holy water went undetected, as did a few lock pickers in their belts.

Beth ushered them past the front desk and into a ballroom where dozens of circular tables had been set with cream-colored tablecloths, crystal glasses, polished silverware, and vases brimming with red roses. Sam and Dean were almost overwhelmed by the elegance that surrounded them.

"My apologies for any delays in the program but with the recent attacks in the news, we knew we'd have to proceed with under careful circumstances," she explained.

"Oh yes. You can never be too careful," Dean nodded in agreement. "But Dr. Jacobson _is_ going to be here, isn't she?"

"Definitely. We were worried that she may not want to make a public appearance after hearing what happened but we'd gotten heightened security around our honorary guest."

The Winchesters exchanged looks while Margo knotted her hands together.

A-A-A

After an hour and a half of applause, refilled water glasses, and dull speeches, Dean was ready to poke his eyeballs out with a fork. He couldn't help squirming in his seat and Sam had to whisper frantically at him a few times to make his brother sit up straight and behave.

_So much for the high-brow life_, Dean thought unhappily. All these lah-de-dah people with their tennis clubs and condos were in a world completely separate from his own. He couldn't wait to yank his tie off and grab a beer at the local bar.

After what seemed like ages, Dean noticed two security guards in dark suits and earpieces flanking a woman who had been quietly talking with several guests on the main stage. Beth adjusted the microphone before speaking into it.

"_Without further ado, it is my honor to bestow this year's Lifetime Achievement Award to a woman who has been an inspiration to us all. A woman who has touched our lives and hearts in so many ways. May I present, Dr. Miri Jacobson!"_

Everyone was getting to their feet and clapping at once. Dean watched Dr. Jacobson strode to the podium with all the poise and regality of a queen. Her cropped blonde hair was arranged tastefully and suited the red Jackie O dress she wore. A crimson paisley scarf was draped around her neck. Sam noticed the glittering brooch pinned on her shoulder and motioned to Margo and Dean, who squinted for a better look.

"Is that a lion?" Dean asked.

Margo nodded. "That's the symbol for the tribe of Judah," she assured him.

Dr. Jacobson shook hands with two senators and a Pulitzer Prize winner before being handed a large glass candelabra. The four of them posed for a photograph while everyone else continued to cheer around them.

"_Dr. Jacobson apologizes for her quick departure but she has a plane to catch for Denver,"_ said Beth. _"We're so glad you were able to take the time to be with us today."_

Clutching the candelabra in both hands, Dr. Jacobson bent over the microphone. The gold lion brooch on her scarf winked in response to the cameras flashing. "_Thank you, ladies and gentlemen, and members of the committee for this great honor. I hope to continue my work and making the world a better place for many years to come."_

She was smoothly escorted off the stage by her security guards. Everyone else took their seats in anticipation of the next course but the Winchesters were already dashing for the stairwell where Dr. Jacobson seemed to have vanished.

"C'mon, let's go!" Dean urged Margo. She could barely keep up with them and had only disappeared from the gilded ballroom into the stark gray stairwell when she saw Dean had already gotten into arms with one of the bodyguards.

"I can explain—" was as far as he got. The tall olive-skinned man had Dean rammed against the wall by the shoulders and almost got him into a full Nelson until Dean bucked down and nearly flipped the man over.

Sam was fighting off the other guard who was smaller but just as agile, if not more, and had almost wrestled Sam to the ground. He felt himself slam into something and narrowly missed being stabbed by the shards of the remainder of the candelabra.

Dean had head butted his bodyguard and would've easily chopped him in half if he hadn't been hit squarely in the stomach. Still recovering from the Golem's blow, he hissed and buckled down. He was brought back to his feet and saw a clenched fist coming towards his face.

"Wait!"

The firm commanding voice of Dr. Jacobson resonated from behind them. She stood straight as an arrow with one hand raised in the air. She said something in Hebrew to one of the bodyguards, who unbuttoned Dean's shirt and quickly pulled it open, revealing the tattoo. She nodded to the other bodyguard but Sam had already opened his shirt to reveal the identical mark.

"We're not here to hurt you," he insisted. "We need your help."

Dr. Jacobson raised her chin. "I should have expected to meet you two one way or another." Her tone was civil but cautious.

Then she noticed Margo standing a few feet back and her voice became somewhat cooler. "Though I can't say that I approve of all of your actions," she added while looking back at the Winchesters. "Especially bringing innocent bystanders along."

"Don't judge us yet, Doc," said Dean. "We know things that can scramble your brain."

"Dean!"

Dr. Jacobson gave another command and the bodyguards released the Winchesters. One of them glowered at Dean and muttered something under his breath.

"What's up his ass?" Dean demanded.

"He said that he wants to know how a regular _schmuck_ like you almost took out a five-level Krav Maga master," said Dr. Jacobson with a dry smile. She motioned with a wave of her hand. "We're not safe here. Please follow me. I'm sure we have a lot to talk about."

Glossary and terms:

_Mitzvoth/mitzvah_ – Commandments in the Torah and guidelines for the Jewish lifestyle. Tradition says there are 613 commandments in total (I wouldn't dare take on making Aaron log all of them)

_Mishna _– The six books of the Oral Torah, guidelines how to fulfill the commandments

_Minyan_ – A group of 10 men required to conduct prayer services

_Shmata_ – A rag

If you want to know what "schmuck" then just know I wasn't allowed to use that word in the house. Morris Feinberg is my headcanon Edna Mode of the _Supernatural_ world. I always wanted to know where the boys get their suits…


	4. Chapter 4

"_Call the world if you please, 'The vale of soul-making'. Then you will find out the use of the world." _

–John Keats

The Winchesters and Margo were escorted up a private flight of stairs and ushered into the presidential suite.

"What about your flight, ma'am?" asked one of the bodyguards.

"Reschedule me for the red eye," said Dr. Jacobson.

The bodyguards nodded in silent agreement and remained posted outside. As soon as the doors were closed and they were alone, Dean whisked out four saltshakers that he had nicked off the reception tables.

Dr. Jacobson's eyebrows went up as she watched him pour salt along the crack under the door but said nothing. When he was done Dean said, "We're good" and tossed the empty shakers into the garbage can. He wiped his hands together. "So tell me, Doc. How much do you know about us?"

"I was informed that you and your brother work under certain circumstances that are, as one may describe them, as being….out of the ordinary," Dr. Jacobson said slowly.

"Who told you that?"

"My nephew."

"Who is he?"

"My nephew," she repeated coolly.

_Touché_, thought Dean. He sat down on the king-sized bed. "Is that all he told you?"

"The rest I was able to put together based on current events," answered Dr. Jacobson. "The Jewish community is small and more closely-knit than you can imagine. When word gets out that a young healthy man like Aaron Bass suddenly dies overnight, it raises suspicions."

She adjusted her scarf. "I am a medical practitioner. It is in my nature to question events be they natural or remarkable. Over the years I have heard rumors of strange encounters, including two young men who constantly checked into random hospitals across the country under false identities to examine uncommon deaths."

Sam swallowed hard and looked up at the doctor.

"But I presume you're not here to discuss that, gentlemen. I'm guessing this has to do with the Judah Initiative."

"What do you know about it?" Dean demanded. His question did not seem to disturb Dr. Jacobson.

"I know it was designed under desperate circumstances to prevent further loss of lives during World War II. But it remains little more than a footnote in the history books for a good reason," she answered. "Science and sorcery could provide disastrous results if they fell into the wrong hands."

Dr. Jacobson's eyes darted sharply from one Winchester to another. "If the information provided to me is in fact realistic, then it suggests some of our enemies from decades ago are still alive and out for blood. And that they have tapped into some supernatural capabilities that render them deadly foes."

"That's true," Dean said.

"And judging by those symbols you have on your chests, I presume this is your line of work? Preventing evil forces from taking control in this world?

"Yes, ma'am."

She pursed her lips up. "How on earth do you expect to stop them?"

"That's why we're here," Sam insisted. "We know that you're a descendant of the Maharal of Prague who created the first Golem. We thought you might be able to help us."

Only now did a flicker of alarm cross Dr. Jacobson's face. "Are you saying that there is a Golem out there now?"

"Yes. And it's fallen into the wrong hands."

She rose from her seat and shook her head. "That can't be happening." Dr. Jacobson pressed a hand to her mouth and began to pace the floor.

"It's true. I saw it myself," Margo insisted. Dr. Jacobson looked surprised but continued to walk back and forth across the carpet.

Only now were Dean's words becoming rushed. "We know that Aaron Bass was looking for a manual on how to control the Golem but he never found one. But he was given instructions by someone named 'J' who can be traced back to the Maharal. This 'J' might know how to stop the Golem."

Dr. Jacobson touched a hand to her chest. "And you think it's me."

"Isn't it? Your mother was Rebeca Loew, wasn't she?" Sam asked uneasily.

"Yes. But she never had anything to do with the Maharal's secrets. Our family left them behind in Prague centuries ago. Nor did I never speak or meet with Aaron Bass."

"You're not 'J' who was in touch with him?" asked Margo.

Dr. Jacobson shook her head. Dean felt as though he had been shoved off a cliff.

"There's something else you don't know," she added. "I'm not the closest direct descendant of the Maharal."

"Then who is?" Sam blurted out.

Dr. Jacobson turned to him and answered calmly:

"My nephew."

A-A-A

Dean ignored the CLOSED sign on Feinberg's door and pushed it open. The only light was glowing from the back of the store and he followed it into a cramped workshop. Yossi was sitting in a chair and bent over a sewing machine. Klezmer music blared from a cassette player while the machine went _ratatatatata_ loudly.

"Yossi?" he demanded. "Or should I call you 'J'?"

Without taking his eyes off his work, Yossi reached out with one hand and calmly turned the music off. "I prefer my Yiddish title. But my Hebrew name is Joseph."

Dean looked miffed. "How many names do Jewish people have?"

"As many as we need, Mr. Winchester." Yossi pushed his glasses back up his nose with an index finger. "But people in your line of work are used to taking on various aliases in order to protect your true identities. Am I right?"

He motioned to a cheap plastic chair. Dean remained standing and eyed Yossi with caution. "How much do you know about us?"

"As much as I need to," said Yossi. "One learns enough when you keep your ear to the ground and your eyes open. I can't say that hunters always leave a clean trail behind them. That's why I warned my aunt when you and your brother arrived in town."

"Then you told her about the Judah Initiative?"

"I did."

"What else do you know?"

"I know that they used the secrets of my ancestor, the Maharal, to build the Golem and that Malka Grunberg was one of several prisoners who was sent running down into that basement to deliver messages to the Initiative. I also know that the Men of Letters and the Judah Initiative parted on bad terms after the end of the Second World War."

"Why?"

"Mostly because of the rise of the Cold War. Barriers were being built, secrets were being shuffled away, and the rise of new superpowers posed innovative threats to mankind. The Men of Letters wanted to sequester away as much information as they could before the Iron Curtain was fully intact."

Dean's eyes narrowed as Yossi went on. The young man lowered his head and his voice.

"Mr. Winchester, the Men of Letters who went to Europe to fight as G.I.s arrived too late in the war to save the Jews. It was only after millions had perished did those members of the secret society finally approach the survivors of the Judah Initiative. And what did they ask for? Kabbalah. Golems. Magic and monster men."

He shook his head mournfully. "Nobody cared when our ancestors suffered and nobody cared afterwards."

"That's why you and Aaron kept things under wraps," Dean concluded aloud.

Yossi nodded. "Even if I wanted to help you, I can't. I'm not a member of any secret society. I don't have any of the Maharal's books or instructions. I couldn't build a Golem—not even a single toe."

"I'm not asking you to do that. I'm asking you to help me take this rogue one down."

Yossi remained passive.

"Don't you care about what happened to Aaron? Do you want those evil freaks to win?" Dean demanded.

Yossi merely turned back to his sewing machine. His continued silence quickly fanned the flames within Dean who had suddenly exploded with rage.

"You know what? I'm sick and tired of you and your self-righteous attitudes!" he shouted. "I have spent years fighting these freaks, living in shanties and eating crap, while you've been living safe and sound with all your precious families and books and businesses! What the _hell_ gives you the right to keep secrets from me?!"

He seized Yossi by the lapels and slammed him up against the wall, causing the young man's glasses to clatter to the floor as Dean ranted on.

"You know my little brother Sammy? He's a freakin' genius. He could've been as good a doctor, lawyer, or accountant as any of you Jews. But he gave up that dream because our dad disappeared and I needed my brother to help me pick up the slack. And he came, kicking and screaming, but he came all the same even after his girlfriend was murdered by monsters."

Dean's teeth clenched up into a snarl. "Whether or not you help me, I am going to finish up what Aaron Bass started. I _will_ find a way to bring that Golem down."

"It's a suicide mission," Yossi warned him. "We don't dare risk our lives when there are so few of us left in the world."

"At least I'll know I died trying to help Aaron. You want to stay here safe behind walls? Fine!" Dean shook Yossi's shoulders. "Then his blood will be on _your_ hands."

For a moment, a flicker of fear crossed the tailor's face. But then it was replaced with a weary expression. "Threaten me all you want, Mr. Winchester. We're used to it."

"How come you keep saying 'we'?"

"Because my people, the Jewish people, are my family," Yossi answered in a soft quivering voice. His eyes were beginning to water painfully. "And when one of us suffers, we all do. It's a burden that I carry every day of my life. What wouldn't you endure to protect your family and its secrets?"

Something about Yossi's words, and the sadness in his tone, had pierced Dean's chest. He could feel the anger inside of him starting to ebb away as he looked into Yossi's face and realized that something in the young man's eyes was similar to an emotion that he himself had experienced so many times on his long dark journey.

The muscles in Dean's fists slowly relaxed as he released his grip on Yossi. The young man released a sigh of relief and smoothed out the wrinkles in his shirt.

"Thank you, Mr. Winchester. I see you are more than what you appear to be. Perhaps we're not so different after all."

"I'm not so sure about that," Dean said.

Yossi bent down and picked his glasses off the floor. "Let's discuss this hypothetically. If I was able to give you advice in your mission, what promise can you give me that you will not abuse my instructions?"

The firstborn Winchester shook his head. "I've got nothing to pledge to you. Just my word that I'll do my best."

"As a Man of Letters or as a hunter?" asked Yossi.

"As Dean Winchester," came the answer.

There was a moment of silent reflection. And then Yossi suddenly handed Dean a pad of paper and a pen. "Show me what you saw on the Golem's forehead."

Dean quickly scribbled the letters down and handed the paper to Yossi. The young man carefully replaced his glasses on his face and studied the letters. He tugged on his beard in thought. Then he took the pen and rearranged the letters.

"Is this what you saw?" he demanded, holding the paper up to Dean.

He nodded eagerly. "Hey, yeah. That's exactly what was written."

"Are you certain?"

"Positive."

Yossi pointed to the letter on the far right. "This is the letter _Aleph_. You need to remove it from the Golem's forehead. That will turn him back into clay."

"That's it?"

"That's it. Of course if someone else is using the Golem then you will have to take control back."

"Scroll in the mouth, right?"

"Exactly."

Yossi reached up into a cabinet and removed a bottle of bourbon and two plastic cups. "And whatever you do, don't set him on fire. The Golem is impervious to all four elements, poison, and bullets."

"I'll remember that."

Yossi poured some bourbon into a cup and handed it to Dean. "_L'Chaim_," he said before tipping his head back and tossing some down his throat.

Dean slugged down the bourbon and coughed hoarsely. Yossi gave him a dry grin. "I know, it's like sandpaper. Makes you realize your heart is still ticking away." He refilled Dean's glass and not wanting to waste it, the Winchester finished a second cup.

He got up to leave and was about to walk out of the store when a thought occurred to Dean. "Just one thing I don't get," he said to Yossi. "Your ancestor was a legend and your aunt's a freakin' superhero. But you're stuck here selling suits?"

Yossi shrugged nonchalantly. "My great-grandfather was a tailor in Kiev. And I like good clothes. Nothing makes my day like selling a man a suit that was made for him."

He sat down back at his sewing machine. "Come back in five months and I'll have something special in our spring line for you."

The corners of Dean's mouth were instinctively twitching upwards. "What makes you think I'll survive five months?"

"I don't know, Mr. Winchester," admitted Yossi. "Call it a leap of faith."

A-A-A

Margo had taken advantage of the presidential suite's bathroom and was busy with a long hot shower, giving Sam the rare opportunity to speak to Dr. Jacobson in privacy.

"Are you sure that your nephew will speak my brother?" he asked.

"If he doesn't cooperate then he'll have one angry aunt to deal with," Dr. Jacobson assured Sam. She had helped herself to the mini-fridge and was pouring out Coke for the both of them. "Yossi knows a lot but sometimes he thinks that makes him smarter than most people."

"Well, does it?"

Dr. Jacobson replaced the cap on the Coke bottle. "We have a saying, '_Who is a wise man? He who learns from everyone'_. Even the most knowledgeable person should know the value of humility. Textbooks and diplomas can only take you so far in this world, Sam Winchester."

She handed him a sparkling glass of soda and he accepted it gratefully.

"I know this is kind of awkward and may not be most appropriate time but um…" He fumbled for the pamphlets in his jacket and placed them on the table. "I just wanted to let you know that I'm a huge fan of your work. Sometimes I wish I could have followed in your footsteps or turned out just like you."

"You wish you had menopause and runs in your stockings?"

Sam suddenly chocked on his Coke. Dr. Jacobson laughed, which made him relax too. She had removed her high heels and was sitting across from him, drinking soda and chatting as if they were lifelong friends. She looked less like the stoic woman he had seen on stage and more like someone's grandmother.

"It seems that you chose to follow a different path than mine," suggested Dr. Jacobson.

"Destiny chose my path," Sam admitted. "I've tried to fight it to no avail."

"You make it sounds as if you don't have a choice," Dr. Jacobson suggested gently.

"I don't."

"Don't you?" She took a sip of Coke. "Forgive me. Our family loves to pepper our conversations with questions. What I meant to say is that while you do not have complete control over everything in your life, there are always going to be small twists and turns in the road that matter. Make those moments count."

Sam noticed that she was arranging the remainders of her award on the table. "Sorry about that," he apologized feebly.

"This? Pssh!" She shrugged her shoulders. "It's just some glass, nothing more. I shouldn't allow my ego to be inflated any more than it already is."

Sam was astonished. "But you're an amazing person! You deserve all the honor that people give you."

"I use to think so. Now it seems that the real honor should go to people like you and your brother who are working behind the scenes, quietly and discreetly, saving lives and getting very little credit for it. I doubt you receive privileges like this often."

She waved a hand around the room. It was certainly a far cry from the mold-stained walls of motels that Sam and Dean had camped out in over the years. Dr. Jacobson went on.

"I was slated to deliver a lecture series at Stanford University several years ago. One professor was keen on introducing me to a scholarship student who was rumored to be quite brilliant. As it turns out, by the time I arrived at Stanford that particular young man had dropped out."

She gave him a hard look. "I always did wonder what had happened to him."

"I didn't want to leave Stanford," Sam admitted. "I was happy where I was. But my past caught up to me."

"So you were forced to leave college?"

"No, I…." He took a deep breath. "My brother needed my help and I followed him."

"Sam Winchester, that is precisely what I mean about the power of free will. Even when it is hard, even when you don't get thanked or appreciated, you still take the right course of action. Not because you'll earn a trophy or even what others think of you. Because such a choice defines your essence as a human being."

His fingers rubbed against the empty glass in his hands and he glanced at the floor with uncertainty. Dr. Jacobson crossed the room and sat down on the sofa next to him.

"Do you know what happened to my parents during the war? For three months they were concealed in the barn of an old drunk farmer. He was a boorish fellow who could barely write his name. But he had more courage in his little finger than an entire troop of Nazi officers. All those intelligent people with their great degrees, their brilliant minds, and their scientific progress." She shook her head sadly."All used to do terrible things."

"That is why I was determined to become a doctor. Not just a skilled doctor, but an ethical and compassionate one foremost. I wanted to heal the rift that damaged this world. But one must start by being a good person before doing anything else."

Every single world she spoke was a puncture in Sam's chest.

He felt something touch his skin and realized Dr. Jacobson had placed her hand on top of his. Her fingers were surprisingly short and stubbly.

"As long as there is life, there is hope," she smiled at him. "You are very much alive, Sam. I would think there is a great deal of hope inside of you."

"There's something else inside of me," he heard himself say with a thumping heart. "Something that's not good at all."

"Then find something within you that _is_ good, something worth protecting. Otherwise, what else are you fighting for?"

She added with a knowing smile, "Perhaps we have more in common than you think."

A-A-A

_Four hours later:_

The Impala was already racing down darkened streets towards Kansas. Margo was in the back seat scribbling away furiously on bits of paper.

"It all makes sense now," she called to Dean in the driver's seat. She held up one piece of paper just as the Impala passed several streetlights. "The Hebrew word that you saw on the Golem's forehead was _emeth_. It means 'truth'. But when you remove the first letter, the word becomes _met_ which means 'death."

"So the word 'death' will make him revert back?" asked Sam.

"If what Yossi says is true then yes."

"Good thing he decided to open his brain and his mouth," Dean said. "The guy must know a lot more than he lets on. Margo, we're dropping you off at the Bunker. Sam and I are going to take the fight to the bad guys."

She looked up from writing. "Isn't there anything else I can do to help? For Aaron's sake, I mean."

"You've done more than enough already," Sam assured her from the front seat. He glanced in the rear view mirror and could see the concern on her face.

"You both will make this right, won't you? You'll make sure to avenge Aaron?"

"Of course we will," Dean assured her languidly. "Have a little faith in us, princess. Have we let you down yet?"

"No, but…" She bit her lower lip. "You've never taken down a Golem before."

"First time for everything. How hard can it be?"

The silence between them was not reassuring. Dean coughed into his fist. "Right. Sam, I want you to focus on distracting Teufel. I'm going to take control of the Golem, rub this guy a one-way ticket to La La Land, and then give Crowley a piece of my mind."

"What if something goes wrong, Dean? You're still wounded from the last fight," his brother warned him.

"What at you blabbering about? I'm fit as a fiddle."

"No you're not. You heard what Dr. Jacobson said before we left the hotel. You need to get yourself some more anti-inflammation medicine and protect your chest."

"Right. I go on ice for two weeks while more law-abiding citizens get sucker punched by the Golem."

"That's not what I'm saying. You can't run out blindly on us, not again."

"Not hearing it, Sammy."

"Why do you always have to be so stubborn?"

The feud would have built up to a feverish pitch if Margo hadn't suddenly screamed. A black-eyed demon had landed on top of the Impala, causing the car to shudder violently. Another had jumped in front of the windshield, blocking Dean's view.

He slammed on the brakes but the car had skidded over an icy patch. The car went spinning three times before veering off the road and slamming into a tree.

A-A-A

"_Hell is empty. And all the devils are here."_ –The Tempest by William Shakespeare

Sam was vaguely aware of a dull throbbing pain in the back of his head. He heard someone calling his name but was too sleepy to respond. He desperately wanted to lay his head down on the softest pillow in the world and sleep for ten years.

A nip of pain, like the bite of a mosquito, caused his senses to slide back into focus. He was aware of how uncomfortable he was in an upright position. His tongue was stuck to the top of his mouth.

Harsh white lights blared in front of his eyes and he squinted.

"Wake up, Moose."

A groan rose up in the back of Sam's throat. There was no mistaking Crowley's gravelly voice.

There was another prod into his arm and he suddenly let out a gasp of pain. His eyes finally popped open, taking in his surroundings.

Sam was on an upright operating table with his wrists and ankles securely fastened down. He tried twitching but the leather straps held him fast. He realized how frail and lightweight he felt, just like a paper doll.

Teufel appeared in front of Sam. He had a starched white apron over his clothes and wore rubber gloves on his hands. He had calmly been extracting blood from Sam's arm and was adding one glass tube to several others that lay on an operating table. Judging by the amount of full beakers lined up, it looked as if Teufel intended to drain Sam dry.

"Dean?" he croaked weakly.

"I'm here, Sammy."

Sam's eyes rolled towards the sound of his brother's voice. Dean was on his knees with a demon on either side, pressing down on his shoulders. One of his shoulders was stained with blood.

"Margo?"

There was the sound of someone being kicked, followed by a squeak of protest.

"Hello, Mouse. Nice of you to join us." Crowley's outline became more visible in the light as he stood beside Teufel. "I can't tell you what a pleasure it is to see all three of you here together."

"Let her go, Crowley. Your fight is with us," Dean rasped.

"I don't think so." Crowley wagged a finger. "Teufel and I have a mutual agreement that should assure everyone gets an equal share in the end. How did Alexander Dumas say it? Ah yes. '_One for all and all for one'.'_"

"So are you two just gonna make us dance the hora or what?"

"Dean Winchester, charming as ever," gloated Crowley. "As much as that sounds like fun, I've thought of a more satisfying finale for you."

He lifted his cane and pointed to a recession in the floor that was surrounded with iron bars. A dozen demons stood over it. Then Crowley motioned to a figure that was coming closer towards Teufel: the Golem. They could see the three-lettered Hebrew word _emeth_ carved into its forehead. Its eyes were blank as it starred ahead.

"You three are going to tango with this big bloke in the pit," announced Crowley. "After Teufel gets everything he needs from Moose, of course. I like to see my customers satisfied."

"Oh yeah, you're a real upright citizen of morality," Sam groaned. He was astonished at how hard it was for him to talk.

"Easy there, Moose," Crowley cautioned. "Better save your strength for the arena. Wouldn't want you getting torn to pieces just yet."

"It's a great stroke of irony," Teufel added. "The very creation of the Jews being used to tear hunters apart. But then again, you all deserve to suffer together."

He strode over to Margo, who had also been forced to her knees by the demons. For a moment, Dean saw a flicker of rage appear on the man's face. Was he angry or just terrified?

"I knew you'd come back to torment me," he hissed. "All these years I was haunted in wake and in sleep, hearing the writhing whining Jewish spirit buzzing like a gnat that I couldn't swipe away."

His hand whipped through the air and slapped Margo across the face. She let out a shriek of pain. Dean saw a red welt rising on her cheek and cursed between his teeth.

"You call yourselves the Chosen People? Bah!" Teufel spat in disgust. "Chosen because you don't scare easily, don't sell your souls so cheaply on the market? Well, your flesh is cheap enough for me. It's good for one thing only and that's fertilizer-unlike some other people."

Teufel held a glass tube of Sam's blood up to the light as if examining a rare gem. "Do you know what this is, frauelin? It is the key to immortality."

He crossed the room to the Golem and uncapping the beaker, emptied the contents into its open mouth. The creature's eyes flooded from black to red and it suddenly let out a thundering roar that echoed in Sam's ears.

Teufel was vivid with excitement. "Demon blood. The nectar of the ancient gods. And to think that all this time such a precious source of power was coursing through the veins of this boy."

He looked back at Margo and tilted his head to one side. "Oh. I see. He didn't tell you, did he? These hunters with their dark musty secrets, tsk tsk."

Sam closed his eyes, not wanting to see Margo's face. His cheeks were burning with shame. He suddenly felt something sharp and cold touching his skin and felt his eyes snap back open. Teufel held a pair of scissors against his face that gleamed in the light.

The Nazi's cool green eyes trailed over Sam's body in an unpleasant motion. When he spoke there was a hint of sentiment in his voice. "You have a beautiful face. It suits you."

The scissor blades trailed lightly over Sam's cheek, making his flesh crawl with aversion.

"You get away from my brother you disgusting piece of—"

Dean's head was slammed against the ground.

"It is almost a pity to destroy such an illustrious work of art as yourself, Sam Winchester." Teufel shook his head from side to side. "But you allied yourself with my enemies. I cannot forgive you for that. But I _am_ grateful for your blood. So I will keep a small souvenir instead."

His fingers deftly curled around a bit of Sam's hair just before Teufel calmly snipped half an inch off off. The strands glinted like copper underneath the lights. With a twisted smile on his lips he kissed it and then carefully placed the lock of hair in his pocket.

Teufel removed the gloves from his hands. "I am ready if you are, Mr. Crowley."

"If you kill us, I'm coming back to haunt you," Margo warned him. "Me and Aaron!"

Teufel's head snapped up. Then his body relaxed again. "I won't let history repeat itself, Miss Green. This time I'll burn your bones to make sure of that. Isn't that what hunters do to vengeful spirits?"

"Yes they do. Now as much as I'll admit this has been an educational experience, I'm running a tight schedule," Crowley announced. He made a great show of examining his watch. "So let's get things started."

"What about a last request?" Margo piped up.

Teufel scowled. "Your stubbornness knows no limits." He stepped forward but Crowley blocked him with his cane.

"Don't get your knickers in a twist just yet, lad. I want to hear what the lady wants."

Margo took a deep gulp. "Kiss goodbye?"

Crowley shook his head. "Sorry, love. Lips are only used for sealing contracts. But if you're interesting in changing your mind I'll reconsider." He gave her a wolfish grin.

Margo shook her head quickly. "Not you. I meant him." She motioned to Sam.

"That's it?" Crowley looked miffed. "You sure, love? I mean, let's face it. Sucking face with Moose is mediocrity. You can do better than that. Say, how about I bring Aaron back?"

"Don't listen to him, Margo," Dean gurgled. A demon tightened his grip on Dean's shoulder wound.

"He's just pissed because he got short-changed nine years," Crowley insisted.

"You promised me she'd be dead!" Teufel shouted in protest.

"What's ten years to you?" Crowley shrugged.

"It is everything to me. You promised me vengeance NOW!" thundered the Nazi.

In a trice, the demons had surrounded Teufel and pinned his hands behind his back. His eyes bulged out as he starred at Crowley but his curses came out chocked and sudden. The demon king wagged a finger in the air.

"Maybe that worked for you and Adolf back in the day but this is the 21st century. We like to extend our warranties." Crowley took several steps closer to Margo.

"C'mon, I'm willing to give you back the beanie-wearing-boyfriend for starters," he offered. "And what else would you like? Let's see, hmmm….Grandma gets to live another twenty years. Your folks get back together. The colonial house on Long Island with the beach property in the back. Gucci bag, Tiffany rings, Armani purse, you name it. Ten happy years and then you pop off downstairs."

He bent over her. "It's the deal of the century, lass."

He waited for a response while Margo wet her parched lips. She eyed him cautiously. "What I want," she said slowly. "Is for you to turn yourself into a ferret and go back to the zoo you came from."

Despite the swelling pain in his arm, Dean felt a surge of satisfaction.

Crowley shrugged. "Your loss, love. Regards to Aaron."

Margo was seized by the arm, hoisted upwards, and dragged forcefully across the room. "Make sure you use lots of tongue. Moose likes that," Crowley growled into her ear. He shoved her towards Sam but Margo fell flat on her face in front of him.

Several demons laughed and jeered. Dean watched Margo stagger to her feet. She wiped her hands on her skirt and then covered her mouth as if she was trying not to throw up again. She carefully approached Sam.

His head dropped before her, a tent of dark hair covering his waxen face. "I'm sorry," he whispered feebly. "I'm so sorry for everything, Margo."

"Shhhh," she whispered softly. Margo's hands touched his face, cradling it gently. He winced inside. Her hands were too soft, too good for the likes of him. His eyelids fluttered weakly as he felt her hands brushing strands of hair out of his face, tucking them behind his ears.

"I'm sorry," he repeated. He could never say it enough times.

Margo cupped his face and raising herself on her toes, pressed her lips to his mouth. He could smell a bittersweet trace of cocoa on Margo's breath and faintly tasted berry-flavored lip gloss.

_You poor kid. We forced you into this mess and now you're being dragged with us into hell because your boyfriend's a hero who tried to..oh. Now I get it. _

Sam craned his neck forward, leaning towards Margo. She broke off the kiss quickly and put her mouth to his ear.

Another round of hysterical laughs and sneers rippled around the room, along with Crowley who was yelling crude obscurities. The only people who didn't seem to be enjoying the display were Dean and Teufel.

Sam felt his bonds being loosened and would've collapsed on the floor if the demons hadn't dragged him across the room. One moment he felt his feet scraping along the metal tiles, the next he was falling and with a painful THUMP had slammed against the bottom of the hole. Two more sound announced the presence of Margo and Dean.

With a monstrous BOOM, the Golem landed in the makeshift area. Vibrations trembled in the walls around them. Sam looked up to see Crowley, the demons, and a newly-satisfied Teufel gloating over them from the rim of the pit.

"You know what to do!" shouted Crowley. "Take your time."

"Margo, get behind me." Dean was staggering to his feet and taking a defensive stand. "Sammy, whatever you do—"

"I know, I know." Sam tried to move to his brother but felt a wave of weariness come over him.

"Sammy!" cried his brother.

"I'm tired, so tired," he heard himself murmur. The Golem gripped Sam by his hair, almost yanking it out by the roots. Dean watched with horror as his brother was sent hurling through the air, slammed against a wall, and fell back against the floor.

"NO!" Dean rushed to his brother but the Golem blocked him. Dean tried to punch him in the chest but the giant merely caught Dean's fist and gave a sharp turn. Dean yelled in pain, his body curling up in pain. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Margo running towards Sam. The Golem stopped twisting Dean's arm and went charging straight towards his brother.

_We can't lose_ Dean thought to himself. _Not like this. _But he knew the odds were stacked against them. Even if he and Sam had been in good shape, they still wouldn't have been able to tackle the Golem.

Crimson eyes flashed and hands flew through the air, raining blows down on Sam, Dean, and Margo. Yelps of pain emerged from the pit while the spectators watched, cheering every time a bone seemed to snap or more blood spurted on the walls.

_Can't be the end of everything. _The words thundered through Dean's body as meaty hands continued to jab into his swollen chest. _Can't let Aaron down. Can't let Margo and Sammy down._

A staggering blow to his head sent Dean sprawling across the pit where he fell flat on his back, every fiber of his body aching in agony. He tried to wiggle his fingers but couldn't. Dean lay helpless as he saw Sam feebly struggle to get his arms around the back of the Golem's neck. The giant didn't approve and tried shaking Sam off, who was clinging loosely all the while.

And then in a motion so fluid that he hardly saw it, Dean watched his brother remove something from his mouth and jab it into the Golem's mouth. The Golem reached behind his back, seized Sam by his shoulders, and threw the young man over his head. Sam went crashing into Margo. The two of them lay in a tangled pile some yards from Dean.

"Break Dean Winchester!" shouted Crowley.

Dean's neck strained to see the Golem lumbering towards him. The meaty hands clenched up, went into the air, and began to come crashing down on him.

Margo had somehow untangled herself and was staggering, no longer able to run, towards Dean—trying to pull him out of harm's way. He realized that she wasn't going to make it. They were both going to be crushed underneath the Golem's blow. His attention had gone from Margo's terrified face back up to the giant hands that were less than a second from smashing his skull.

_Aaron, forgive me. __  
_

The darkness raced towards Dean when a single voice screamed out.

"STOP!"

The Golem's hands moved no further. They hovered less than an inch above Dean's nose. He felt his heart skip a beat.

Quivering and white as paper, Sam was on his knees, one hand thrust out towards the Golem.

"Stop!" he repeated. And a third time, more calmly then before, he said, "In the name of Abraham, I command you to stop."

_Sam felt a tiny wad of paper pushed between his lips and he let it slip quickly under his tongue. "It has your name on it," whispered Margo. _

Dean watched the Golem's hand retract. The giant slowly stood up and turned its attention towards Sam. The young man shut his eyes for a moment, concentrating all of his energy forward. Ignoring the pain, the exhaustion, the tiny whispers of fears and doubts that festered in Sam's mind—he let them all slide away and grasped onto the single strand of energy that was binding him to the massive mudman.

And in that moment, Sam Winchester understood what Aaron Bass had managed to do.

_Take control._

Sam felt a flicker of light inside of his chest. It wavered hesitantly when he noticed Dean's face but he imagined cupping it in his hands, protecting it gently, as he could will himself to protect his brother.

There was a glimmer of hope in Margo's eyes and it make the light inside of him grow stronger, almost forgetting the loss of blood and quivering in his limbs.

"Come here," Sam instructed. The Golem strode towards him and stopped a foot in front of Sam. The blood-red film in its eyes slowly drained away, revealing a calm stoic expression.

"You are to do as I say," he commanded. "No harm is to come of this woman, my brother, or myself. Nod if you understand."

The Golem nodded deeply to Sam and then bowed its head submissively, waiting for his next order.

"If anyone tries to hurt us, you are to protect us at all costs." He motioned to Dean. "Help my brother up."

The Golem obediently bent over Dean's body and carefully placed him right side up. Margo quickly rushed to Dean's side and slid an arm around his waist, placing one of his arms around her shoulder.

"Ow! Ow!" he gasped. Then his eyes locked onto Sam and he saw something in his little brother's face, something firm and commanding, that wasn't usual for Sam. Many times before his little brother's powers had scared him but now Dean realized he had to trust Sam to see this through. He nodded in agreement to Sam, who turned back to the Golem.

"Get us out of here," he instructed. "Remove any demons in our way."

The metal bars on top of the pit gave way like rubber and one by one, each of them were hoisted up in the Golem's arms as lightly as if they had been made of porcelain. Sam, Dean, and Margo found themselves back on equal footing with Crowley's squad and Teufel.

But the demons must has sensed a shift in the game because several of them were already exiting human bodies, black smoke trailing out of their mouths.

"Where are you going, you stupid silly girls? Get back here!" shouted Crowley.

"You can finish him off," said Sam.

The Golem rushed towards Crowley and in one firm grasp, had lifted him several feet off the ground. The King of Hell was exasperated. "What the bloody bullocks are you doing? Put me down!" he thundered. The Golem merely grunted and tossed Crowley as if he was a baseball. Everyone watched Crowley's arms and legs flay out like a rag doll. His body hit the ceiling with a loud _CRASH_ but before it could fall back to the ground, the demon king's body had vanished.

"Figures," mumbled Dean.

Several other demons had come charging forward, armed with chains and axes. Blows poured down on the Golem's skin but made no impact. With looks of horror on their faces, the demons were thrown aside. Sam watched the Golem seize two demons by their necks and appeared to be chocking the life out of them.

"Wait! There's still human beings inside of them!" he cried out.

A heavy thumb pressed against each demon's neck and he watched as their heads tipped back and the black smoke streamed out of their mouths. The Golem set the two unconscious bodies back down safely.

In the span of five minutes, the tables had turned. Now only Teufel was left and he was already backing away from the trio. He knocked against the operating table before seizing a syringe full of Sam's blood.

"I won't be defeated so easily!" he snarled, jamming the syringe into his arm. Teufel's eyes flooded to black. He thrust a hand at Margo and the invisible force shoved her against the wall. But the Golem had quickly taken a stance in front of Teufel, blocking his power. Margo landed safely on the ground.

"NO!" Teufel howled, frothing at the mouth. "You cannot take him from me! He is mine!"

"The Golem belonged to Aaron Bass," said Dean. "You stole his birthright."

"He wasn't fit to handle it," Teufel lashed out. He had already picked up another syringe and plunged it into his wrist. "If you think I'm going to let a handful of freaks like you stop me, I'll make a deal with the devil himself before letting _anyone_ get in my way!"

"Yeah, that really worked out well with you and Crowley," Dean piped up. He glanced aside. "Sammy?"

Sam was starring at Teufel with a pained expression. He was aware that Teufel had once been an ordinary man, a soldier who listened to his superior officers. Now as he saw the black-eyed person in front of him, shaking with rage and saturated with Sam's own blood, he felt a shift of resolution within him.

Teufel was no longer human. He had ceased to be that long ago.

"Kill Teufel," he commanded the Golem. Sam watched the giant charged forward. But even before the Golem could snap Teufel's neck, there was a faint popping sound in the air. A tiny red mark had blossomed between Teufel's eyes.

Sam watched the bullet wound grow between widened eyes. Teufel's mouth opened up and remained that way. He staggered backwards into the operating table before went crashing down along with the instruments and beakers. There was the tinkling sound of metal clattering and glass breaking…and then all was silent.

Dean dropped the gun he was holding.

"Happy Hanukkah," he concluded.

Margo was trying to get him to his feet again. "Dean! Can you hear me?"

"I'm here, princess. Take ten," he groaned.

She looked back at his brother. "Sammy?"

Sam straightened himself up, feeling his spine smooth out and his confidence solidifying. "Come here," he told the Golem. "Kneel down."

The Golem feel to its knees until it was just below Sam's eye level. The young man looked into the Golem's face and challenging all of his empathy forth, could sense the creature's pain. Pain for betraying its master. Pain for being enslaved to dark forces.

"It's all right," Sam said softly. "You served your master well. Aaron would be pleased."

The creases in the Golem's face relaxed slightly. In its eyes, Sam could sense that it was begging for respite. For tranquility. For the end.

"You have accomplished everything you were made to do. Because of your actions, the Thule are gone. They won't ever harm the children of Abraham again." He paused and added, "Thank you."

A faint shine appeared in the Golem's eyes.

"Now it is time for you to go," Sam assured him.

The creature showed no sign of resistance. If anything, one could sense that was grateful to be relieved of its duty. It closed its eyes and released the softest of sighs.

_Truth._

Sam reached forward and with the palm of his right hand, touched the letter _aleph_ on the Golem's forehead. In one smooth stroke he erased the letter from the Golem's head.

_Death._

Sam drew his hand back and realized the palm was covered in wet red clay. Before his eyes, the Golem's fleshy skin was dissolving away, crumbling before his eyes. The head had already shrunken into the shoulders that were sinking into the torso and legs. The hulking tower of flesh was transforming within secondss.

No matter how many astonished things that Sam had witnessed in his life, it was no less wondrous to watch the supernatural unfold yet again before his eyes.

A pile of red clay lay at his feet. Dean had staggered over and reaching forward, plucked a piece of parchment that was half-buried in the clay. He unfolded it, looked at it, and then handed it to Sam. Together they studied the Hebrew letters and then turned to Margo, who nodded knowingly.

_Shmuel Ben Yonatan._

Samuel son of Jonathan.

A-A-A

_You could have bowed out gracefully  
But you didn't  
You knew enough to know to leave well enough alone  
But you wouldn't_

_It's amazing to me__ how __every day  
You save my life_

-Every day by Rascal Flatts

A-A-A

_Displaced Persons Camp, Dormagen, 1945_

"Taking out three werewolves at once? You could have been shredded to pieces!" fumed Sergeant Travis Winchester. He was assisting the lanky tow-haired corporal who had his left arm in a sling and was leaning on the heavyset dark-haired Sergeant Winchester for support as they limped back to the camp.

"Good thing I had backup, huh?" smirked the corporal.

Travis shook his head in disgust. "You hunters are all the same. Shoot first, think later."

"And you Men of Letters act like a bunch of icy know-it-alls but underneath, you're as soft and cuddly as a teddy bear in a Macys Christmas window," insisted Corporal Fred Campbell.

"Do you really think you're funny, Corporal Campbell?"

"I think I'm adorable."

Travis responded with a snort of disgust.

"Look, I know your so-called 'secret society' doesn't like working with people like me," Fred insisted in a more serious tone. "But we're thousands of miles from home, stuck in a bombed-out city with hundreds of refugees on our hands, and there's not a lot of men who would go into that freezing forest and take out those sharp-toothed fleabags before they make a meal of those poor civilians."

Travis stopped in his tracks. "What are you trying to say?"

"I'm saying we made a great team back there, Sergeant." Fred's eyes twinkled with mischief. "And I wouldn't mind doing it again if I had a sharp-shooter like you to watch my back."

"Don't you dare get all touchy feeling right now," warned Travis. "Because I can't wait to get out of this godforsaken place and go home to a hot bath and Harvard University. You can drink beer, pass out, or do whatever it is you hunters do in your spare time."

"I love you too," smiled Fred.

"Shut up!"

"Make me, bitch."

"Jerk."

"Uh-oh." Fred pointed to a slim figure that was sitting on a stump some feet away from the rest of the refugees who had been lining up for their evening soup. She had her arms wrapped around herself and was rocking back and forth, moaning to herself.

A pulse was throbbing in Travis' temple. Ever since his company had parachuted behind enemy lines, he had seen some things that would make even the most jaded member of the Men of Letters turn white with fear. Not all evil in this world came from the supernatural. The war had showed him what men were truly capable of doing even without the assistance of demons.

He saw the results every day when he made his rounds around the DP camp and looked into the eyes of the survivors. Their souls had been ripped from their bodies and they wandered around aimlessly, not yet dead yet barely alive.

Fred Campbell had already knelt beside the woman and was unwrapping part of his ration bar. "You like chocolate?" he asked her. She didn't seem to know what he was saying because she eyed the candy hungrily but kept her hands to herself.

Travis Winchester approached them and spoke in Polish. _"We're American soldiers. We won't hurt you. Please, have some chocolate."_

After a moment's hesitation, her dirty fingers took the chocolate from Fred and she bit into it. Two tears trickled down her face and she mumbled something.

"What'd she say?" asked Fred.

"She says she hasn't had chocolate for a long time, since before the war started." Travis fumbled in his pocket and handed his entire ration bar to her. _"Don't eat it all at once or you'll get sick,"_ he warned her. He squatted down on the ground next to her. _"My name is Travis and this fool is Fred."_

"Malka," she mumbled.

"_Malka. Is that what you're called?"_

"_No. Malka's my sister. She's dead."_

_"I'm sorry."_

The girl kept chewing like a cow on its cud and kept her eyes fixed on the horizon.

"_So what is your name?"_

"_It, it was Rachel Grunberg."_

"_Rachel. That's a pretty name." _Travis smiled kindly and reached to touch her face but she flinched from him, clutching the chocolate protectively against her chest.

"Sergeant, maybe a drop or two of liquid protection?" suggested Fred.

"Good idea." Travis took out his flask and took a swig, then offered it to Rachel. She put the canteen to her lips and nearly chocked on the fiery brew he had kept stashed away for emergencies.

"_So Rachel, where will you go from here?" _he asked her. She shrugged.

"_Do you have any friends or other family you can find?" _She shook her head.

"Tell her to come to America. We've got foot longs, double-features, baseball, the Grand Canyon—oh yeah! And tell her about Radio City Music Hall!" exclaimed Fred.

Travis repeated everything to Rachel. She slowly lifted her head to him and blinked her large dark eyes. Then she said something to him.

"She wants to know if a Jew is permitted to own chocolate in America," Travis told Fred.

Fred burst out into a fit of laughter and said something in English that Travis translated back.

"_My friend says that in America you can buy and eat all the chocolate you want."_

"_I don't believe you."_

"_It's the truth, I swear it. You can open up your own candy store and everyone will come from miles around to buy from you." _He paused and added, "_I think Malka would have liked that."_

She didn't smile but something in her eyes that looked like hope flickered for a moment like a candle sputtering. She watched Fred mutter something into Travis' ear and he seemed to nod in approval.

"_Fred has an idea. You can start a new life in America. Why not give yourself a new name too?" _

"_Like what?"_

"_Well, instead of Grunberg, Fred here wants to know how you feel about the name 'Green'."_

"_Green?"_

"_Like the color green. Means spring, trees, and grass. Things growing after a winter storm."_

Her lips moved but no sound came out of them. She nibbled on a bit of chocolate and looked down at the ground. And then she nodded to the soldiers.

"Rachel Green."

A-A-A

_Present day, one week later:_

"You don't have to do this."

"I want to, Margo."

She didn't refuse him. Sam picked up a pebble and carefully placed it on top of Aaron's marker.

They were standing in the middle of the Jewish cemetery. A light drizzle was falling, so faint that it left a veil of silver on their coats. The sky was unfolding in constant ripples of gray while the wet grass squished underneath their feet.

"It's okay, Aaron. We finished the job. Thank you for starting it," Sam said. He glanced at Margo. "What do you want to say?"

She seemed at a loss for words. Margo just shook her head and her eyes flooded with tears. She pressed a hand to her mouth and cried softly. Sam placed an arm around her, letting her rest her head against his shoulder as she let her frustrations and fears flow out with the rain.

After some time, Margo drew back from Sam and wiped her eyes. "I understand now, Aaron. I know why you hid the truth from me." She smiled between her tears. "You were trying to keep us all safe."

A thought came over Sam. "Is that why the word on the Golem had to be _emeth_? Truth?"

"The truth can be a powerful and terrible thing," came a voice from behind them. Dr. Jacobson came forward holding a wide umbrella that shielded the three of them from the rain. "It has been said that even God hides the truth for the sake of peace on earth."

"Why?"

"Haven't you ever known a truth that was so painful that to reveal it would break someone's heart?" she asked. "And for the sake of protecting someone you love, you were willing to lock up the truth even if it meant risking your life?"

Sam didn't need to think twice to answer that one. He nodded in agreement. But one thought still troubled him. He waited until Dr. Jacobson had walked out of the cemetery to address Margo again.

"Listen, Margo. About what Teufel said..what he showed us…" Sam hesitated for a moment. This was a truth that was going to be unbearable but nevertheless, necessary. "It's my blood," he said at last. "There's demon blood inside of me."

He watched her eyes look up and down his body. It was hard to read Margo's expression. She seemed thoughtful, pensive. He waited for her to turn away but she didn't.

"Don't you understand what I'm telling you?" Sam insisted. "The thing that's inside of me is just as bad as Crowley, Teufel, and those other monsters. It's even worse!"

"If that's true then tell me this," Margo said. "Why are you fighting alongside your brother instead of playing King of the Mountain?"

"B-because I don't want to," he protested. "And because he's my brother. I owe him that much."

"And that's not a good enough reason to give you benefit of the doubt?" she demanded.

"I have done _horrible_ things because of this blood," Sam said, jabbing himself in the chest. "Evil twisted things that cannot be fixed."

"Are you sorry?"

"Of course I am!"

A hand flew to Margo's mouth. "Oh. Now I get it."

Sam was exasperated. "Get what?"

"I understand now. That's why you push yourself to the limits and beyond, why you risk your life to save people and why you stick your neck out to face all these crazy things," Margo admitted. "You're trying to punish yourself for what you are."

She starred right up at him with eyes that were slowly beginning to dry. Sam just fidgeted in place.

Margo sighed. "Look, if we're going to have a conversation about 'pure blood' verses 'tainted blood' right after facing a psychotic Nazi and his twisted experiments, I don't want any part of it. Just know that I put your name on that scroll before I knew anything about your blood and I don't have a single regret about it."

"You took a big risk in writing my name down," Sam admitted.

"I know. I saw something back in the Bunker that night we were talking." It was Margo's turn to be honest. "I believe you when you say you have something dark inside of yourself."

"Then what did you think I could take on the Golem?"

"Because I saw you fight back. I saw you resisting evil. You're a lot of things, Sam Winchester, but you're not a Golem. The only one who can take away your free will is you."

The rain was beginning to ease up around them. Margo twirled a wet strand of hair around her finger.

"It was still dangerous betting that I could control it," he said finally.

"I guess I had faith." Margo turned around to face Aaron's marker. She pulled a pebble out of her pocket and laid it carefully beside the one that Sam had placed. "After everything I've seen, I don't ever want to stop having that faith in the goodness of other people."

She turned back to Sam. "Especially in people like you."

A-A-A

Dean stood outside the cemetery admiring the handiwork on the recently-fixed Impala.

"Not bad," he mused. "Not bad at all. How'd you get it out of the body shop so fast?"

"I pulled some strings," Yossi said. "It pays to know the right people." He wore a black fedora on his head and had a copy of the Talmud tucked under one arm.

"Did you take care of that body bag I sent you?"

"Yes. And I won't deny that destroying the remains of Captain Teufel was cathartic," Yossi added.

Dean grinned. "We might make a hunter of you yet."

"I hope not."

"Yossi, behave yourself," warned Dr. Jacobson.

"Yes, Aunt Miri."

"And by the way, Doc. What you did to my arm, woah, now that awesome. Here I thought I'd never get to hold a rifle again." Dean motioned to his right arm that was in a sling while his left hand clutched a white paper bag. "Gotta admit you've got a magic touch."

"I'll take that as a 'thank you'," remarked Dr. Jacobson "Though I strongly protest you checking out of the hospital early. You should give yourself another ten days of bed rest for the swelling to go down."

Dean shook his head. "No can do, Doc. We've got work to do, places to me. But thanks for filling us up on meds." Dean shook the bag and countless pills rattled inside. Dr. Jacobson had provided him with enough prescriptions and pain-killers to stop a herd of elephants.

Margo and Sam had just rejoined them beside the Impala.

"So, what happens now? You go back to the Tocqueville library?" Dean asked Margo.

"I don't know," she said with a shake of her head. "I want to keep doing what I love but it hurts too much to go back to Pennsylvania."

"I'll be glad to help you find a position in another city," Dr. Jacobson said. She gently put her arms around Margo's shoulders. "The Scott Institute has a reference branch that may have a position open."

Margo looked up at the doctor hopefully. "Really? You'd do that for me?"

"Of course. Family takes care of each other."

Sam approached Yossi. "Now that's the Thule's been destroyed, do you want to pick up where Aaron left off?"

Yossi shook his head. "There's no need for the Judah Initiative or the Golem anymore. As far as I am concerned, the J.I. has been officially disbanded. And I pray that the need for it will never arise again."

"And if it does?"

"I'll cross that bridge when I get to it," Yossi insisted. "But if people like you and your brother are ever in need of further assistance, I hope to provide you with what information I have to offer."

Dean waved a finger at Yossi. "If I didn't know better, I'd say you were offering to help the Men of Letters."

"I'm offering to help the Winchesters," Yossi defended himself. He gave Sam and Dean each a business card. "I presume you'll need new threads over time. I have your measurements and can ship clothes overnight."

"Gee, thanks. How's Morris Feinstein doing?"

"Eighty nine and no signs of slowing down. The man is determined to surpass us all."

Dean put his good arm around Margo in a half-hug before sliding into the driver's seat. Sam was also about to get into the Impala when he caught one last look at her. She wavered from one foot to another, many words that wanted to be said but no emotions strong enough to give them meaning. He drew closer to her and bending down to Margo, gently kissed her on the cheek.

"Take care of yourself, Malka Chaya." His smile glowed out of his eyes and it seemed to spread across Margo's face too.

"I will," she assured him softly with a final squeeze of Sam's hand.

"Sammy, we gotta move if we want to beat rush hour traffic!" Dean hollered. He gave Margo, Dr. Jacobson, and Yossi each a snarky wink before climbing into the Impala. His brother followed suit.

The car roared to life and the three people watched it drive down the road, straightforward and on, until it had disappeared into a veil of mist. The hunters were gone.

Nobody said anything for a moment. Then Yossi cleared his throat. "We'd better get started. There's a lot of research to do."

"We? Doing research?" asked Margo.

He nodded. "The Maharal wasn't the only scholar of Kabbalah in history. There are many volumes of wisdom that the sages wrote down that have been missing for the centuries. But that doesn't mean that they're gone. That knowledge needs to be found, preserved, and protected for future generations."

"It's a good thing we know a suitable librarian for the job," added Dr. Jacobson.

Margo brought a hand to her forehead as she glanced upwards. The clouds were beginning to break apart and she could see a small but noticable shaft of blue sky blooming overhead.

Down the road and miles away, a radio was blaring away as Dean Winchester munched on a hamburger and laughed at Sam's comments.

"_How good and pleasant it is when brothers dwell together as one."_ –Psalms 133

_EPILOGUE_

"Dr. Jacobson, you are a perfectly rational physician. Surely you can shed some light on the case for us," insisted Dr. Peter Walsch.

"I don't see how being perfectly rational will help under these circumstances," she said.

The two of them were in the pediatric ward and separated by a barrier of glass from the tiny patient who lay in the incubator. His warm pink skin pulsed softly underneath the lamps and his tiny eyelids fluttered with the gentlest movement.

"The odds of this premature infant surviving the operation were severely against his favor. And you said, as I quote, that even if the surgery went smoothly, his delicate heart condition would take weeks to clear up."

Dr. Walsch threw his hands up. "And now the atrioventricular valve has somehow healed itself? Overnight?!" He was almost hysterical with excitement.

Dr. Jacobson remained cool as a cucumber. "I presume the most 'rational' explanation is that it was a miracle."

"There's no such thing!" blustered Dr. Walsch.

"Isn't there?" his associate asked with a hint of amusement in her voice. Unable to make heads or tails of Dr. Jacobson's cryptic response, Dr. Walsch strode off in a hurry.

Dr. Jacobson turned back to the window and was surprised to notice a new reflection had appeared in it. Glancing sideways, she was aware of a new presence that had appeared silently and without detection.

The dark-haired man in the trench coat was looking at the baby thoughtfully. "It's amazing," he said. "Truly fascinating how such a small person can cling so strongly to life." The raspy texture in his voice didn't meet the gentle overtones in his manner. His attention turned from the baby to Dr. Jacobson.

The man's eyes were made of ice and light as he looked not only at her, but _through_ her, to the thoughts in her head. She was not a woman to be easily fazed but even Dr. Jacobson could not deny the tremble of awe that ran through her as she felt the man's aura almost overwhelming in the room.

But the dark-haired man gave her a smile like the light of a crescent moon; his entire face seemed radiant. "God does work in mysterious ways," he added.

"He certainly does," Dr. Jacobson murmured faintly.

"You have already thought of a good name for the child," said the man. "His parents will approve."

Something in his voice urged Dr. Jacobson to take out her cell phone and dial away quickly. She pressed it to her ear.

"Hello, Rabbi Allen? Yes, your son is doing fine. _Baruch Hashem_, he's strong and healthy as a baby can be. But we'd like to keep him for a bit longer for observation. What's that? Oh yes, I thought of a suitable name for him that I hope meets with your approval. How does 'Aaron Chaim' sound? _Chaim_ for life, of course. I'm so glad. I thought you'd like it."

Dr. Jacobson lowered the phone long enough to search for her companion. But he had already vanished, his presence having slipped away like the winking light of a star.

END

_L'chaim_ – To life

_Baruch Hashem_ - Thank God


End file.
